Cloak And Dagger
by Strangerine
Summary: First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage - and then comes the bombs. Morgan thought she'd finally get her happy ending, only to see her world destroyed by nuclear fire. Then a certain spy comes along to be a light in the dark. (TW for panic attacks, past self-harm) Cover Art belongs to VickyxRedfield at DeviantArt.
1. Prologue

Morgan scowled at her reflection as the radio warbled a crooning tune behind her. A glob of pale concealer perched on her fingertips, already starting to dry. Over her shoulder, she saw Nate slow to a stop beside the bathroom doorway. She stifled a sigh as he ducked inside, padding across the bathroom floor with a meek expression.

"You okay?" he asked, curling his arms around her middle. He propped his chin onto her shoulder, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

She exhaled, and lowered her shoulders, rolling the makeup between her fingers. "I was thinking about taking Sean to the park today," she said. Flecks of concealer got stuck under her fingernails. "Just deciding whether or not I want to… paint them over."

Nate sighed. His grip around her tightened, and he pressed a kiss into her neck before resting the side of his head against hers. "You look beautiful," he said, with painful earnestness. "I promise. Those ladies at the Homeowner's Association, they didn't-"

"They meant what they said, Nate," Morgan snapped. Her eyes fell shut as she took a breath and composed herself. "I'm sorry, honey. It's just… a lot to deal with. I'm already worried about what's gonna happen next week."

"Sweetie, they already hired you. I don't think they're going to fire you on your first day."

"Maybe. Or maybe not. Everyone was so excited about having a bona fide war veteran in their

neighborhood, lady vet or otherwise. But now that I'm not attending the book clubs or baking shitty cakes for my neighbors, suddenly I'm not playing nice. You don't realize how often people change their tune when you don't play along."

"Morgan." Nate breathed a faint chuckle, and turned the woman aside, taking her palms in his with no mind to the makeup on her fingers. "I'm an underweight nerd who needs an inhaler to do any exercise more strenuous than a brisk walk. I stayed home to finish my girly art school degree while my wife went off to war. I like my coffee with sugar in it. I know how narrow-minded people can be."

"Right, right." She shook her head, face contorted in chagrin. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't-"

"You're _fine_." Hands still held firmly in his, Nate leaned forward and kissed her, damming the flow of stumbling apologies and self-doubts. "Everything's fine, okay? It doesn't matter what people say, or what they show on television, or how many doctors we have to see. We're fine. I'm here."

Morgan savored the kiss for a moment before releasing a bitter chuckle. "You're such a fuckin' romantic."

Nate's eyes gleamed, and his lips curled in a lop-sided grin. "And that's why you love me." He kissed her again, this time more brief and affectionate, before releasing her hands. Morgan reached after him, a good deal of the concealer still clinging to his sleeve, but he ducked down the hall before she could get it off.

Morgan turned back to the mirror and observed herself once more. With her clean hand, she poked the dark bags below her eyes. Dark hair, washed but unbrushed, hung limply down to her shoulders. Cloudy gray eyes dotted with flecks of blue stood out against the jagged scars running diagonally across her eyebrow, nose, and upper lip.

How Nate hadn't recoiled when she'd first stepped off that return train, she'd never know. But she could still taste his kisses on her lips, so she bit her lower lip to hide a smile, and ran a brush through her hair.

Sean wailed in the other room, drawing her from her thoughts. Cursing under her breath, she rinsed off her hands and put the cap back on the concealer tin, wiping her fingers on her jeans as she walked to the nursery. "Hush," Morgan murmured, leaning over the crib's edge. "Mommy's here."

She pressed her lips to her son's head as she held his small body to her chest, calloused hands cradling his delicate form. She'd just finished nursing him when Nate meandered in, leaning against the doorway and sipping his coffee. "We have Codsworth to do that, you know," he remarked, more reminding than reprimanding.

"Codsworth has a breastfeeding function?"

Nate walked up alongside her, resting a hand on her lower back. "You know what I mean."

Morgan sighed, letting her hand rest on Sean's back. She shook her head firmly and went on, coaxing the infant to spit up. "We got Codsworth to do the dishes and trim the hedges. And because you wanted a robot butler. I don't want my baby growing up looking to a robot for love and comfort. I'm his mother. When he cries, I should be there."

"Robot butlers are a good financial investment," Nate defended, picking up a cloth and cleaning Sean's spit-up.

"Robot butlers, underground vaults... Are you becoming one of your comic book supervillains? Is that what you're spending my government benefits on?" Morgan eased Sean off her shoulder and held him out as Nate threw away the cloth.

"I like to think I'd become a superhero, not a villain, thank you. And some of it is my money. I do get paid to draw things. Sometimes." Nate took the baby with ease and rested him in the crook of his arm, his free hand held out to let Sean grasp as his fingers.

Morgan watched them for a moment, taking in the idyllic scene of well-furnished baby's room, the sunlight filtering in through the curtains, her husband cradling her son. The windows were open, making the curtains flutter and a cool breeze fill the room. The smell of freshly cut lawns and well-kept flowerbeds filled the air. Morgan heard the doorbell ring next door as the Vault-Tec salesmen went through the neighborhood.

Something choked in her throat, and she looked away, fiddling with the crib's blankets. "I haven't taken my meds in a few weeks," she said, her voice falsely light.

"Really?" Nate stopped, looking back at her. His mouth split in a wide smile. "That's great, Morgan. That's - that's so good. That's progress."

"I don't want to make a big deal of it," she said, trying to be nonchalant despite the rapid pounding in her chest. "But, you know. It's something." Morgan smiled despite herself, and dared to meet his eyes.

Nate's hazel-green eyes shone with pride and joy. Sean still held in one arm, he stepped forward to cup her cheek with his free hand, pressing kisses to her forehead and lips. "It is something," he agreed. He bit his lower lip, then spoke with a shy smile. "You know, once we get settled here, and you've got your job, I was thinking-"

"Sir? Ma'am?" Codsworth's uneasy voice wafted in from the livingroom. "I think you should come and see this!"

The couple shared an uneasy look. Anxiety prickled at the base of Morgan's skull, and she took Sean from Nate's arms, pressing the child to her chest for comfort as she followed Nate to the front room.

On the television, a news anchor had replaced the daytime drama onscreen. Papers clutched tight in his hands, the man avoided eye contact with the camera, staring at his hands or his desk. He looked haggard, shadows under his eyes and his hair mussed. He babbled about flashes- incoming information- confirmed reports of-

Nuclear detonation.

Her heart didn't skip a beat like she thought it would. It didn't seem quite real. They were standing in their house, in Sanctuary Hills. They were safe here. That's what the real estate agents had said. Sure, pundits claimed nuclear war was just around the corner, but they were just trying to scare more people into enlisting. None of this could be happening. Right?

The new anchor on screen put his head in his hands. "Oh, god."

Outside, air raid sirens wailed, the sharp sound making Sean squirm and cry. Morgan, light-headed and dizzy, vaguely tried to shush him. Around her, Nate panicked. "The sirens. Oh, oh, god, Morgan, we have to go." Morgan didn't move, still staring at the TV with unfocused eyes. "M-Morgan, we have to _go_. Come on." Nate grabbed her elbow and dragged her along, fumbling with the locks and throwing open the front door. At his touch, Morgan blinked, and stumbled after him.

Sean's cries filled the air as they raced down the streets, the air raid sirens growing louder. Military trucks blocked the end of the road, guarded by soldiers armed with gleaming guns. They passed people in their pajamas, people starting their cars, people searching for a missing child. Morgan ignored them all, and followed Nate. Atop the hill behind their house, a small crowd clustered in front of a chain-link fence. Two intimidating soldiers in power armor forced the crowd back, and a man with a clipboard stood at the gate.

Nate pushed through the crowd, fingers digging into Morgan's skin. "We're on the list," he gasped, skidding to a stop at the end of the soldiers' guns. "The name is-"

"You're good," the clipboard-man said, jerked a thumb behind him. "Stop on the blue and yellow platform."

Morgan found Nate's hand and curled her fingers through it as they ran through the gate, wailing civilians clawing at the back of her shirt as they fled. A vertibird landed some fifteen feet in front of them, blowing hot air in their faces and whipping their hair around. They caught sight of a man in a blue jumpsuit, and he directed them to the platform, where several of their neighbors already stood. Sean cried. Morgan rocked him as best she could, her breaths coming in sharp, hyperventilating gasps.

Nate wrapped his arms around her, and she pressed her head to his chest, Sean held between them. Muffled by Nate's body, Morgan heard someone shout. "Now! Do it now!" She stumbled as the platform lurched, descending into the earth with an awful, metallic screeching sound. Morgan's stomach clenched at the sudden drop, and she buried her face under Nate's chin.

Then the bomb went off. The sound, huge and terrifying, came crashing from her left. She jerked her head up and saw, saw the grand plumes of red and orange fire as it blossomed into the shape of a mushroom. She shut her eyes against the dark cloud of dust that swept over them, feeling the shockwave rumble under her feet. The platform screeched again, and dropped faster. A moment later, and some six feet below the ground, the vault entrance closed and sealed them into the elevator shaft.

Soon, they reached the bottom, where the platform stopped and a gate in the wall of the shaft opened. The group huddled together, parents with children and husbands with wives, unsure where to go. It took all of Morgan's might not to collapse where she was. The screams of the crowd that pulled at her clothes still rang in her ears, and she could see that afterimage of the explosion when she closed her eyes. Only Sean, still wailing and screaming, kept her on her feet.

A voice from beyond the gate ordered them forward. Morgan's neighbors shuffled out, into a room with a stairwell leading past a gear-shaped door. Morgan could hear people murmuring, doing as they were told, assimilating into the Vault. But she didn't move. Cold fear wrapped its hands around her throat and squeezed, anchoring her feet to the ground and sending freezing chills up her spine. Nate moved to go after the crowd, but stopped when she didn't follow.

"Morgan, honey," he murmured, rubbing her shoulders. "We're safe, okay? I need you to look at me right now. Please look at me. It's gonna be okay. We have Sean, see? Sean's safe. If Sean's okay, then we're okay." To punctuate his point, he ran his hand over Sean's head, soothing the unhappy baby.

Despite the daze that clouded her consciousness, Nate's words rang true. Morgan closed her eyes and took a breath, trying to control the shakes that make her nauseous and the fear that sent her spiraling into darkness. After a few moments, her fear remained, but she had more control. "Okay," she breathed, and adjusted Sean to make him more comfortable.

Nate gave her a tight, worried smile, and pressed his hand to her back as he helped her up the stairs. Their neighbors had all gotten a head start and were changing into jumpsuits by the time Morgan and Nate made it through inspection. They were one of the last to be greeted. Everyone else had already been taken into the decontamination room.

"Follow the doctor," one soothing woman said. "He'll take you where you need to go."

"You're going to love it here," the doctor began. Without looking back at them, he recited some rehearsed speech, touting the virtues of the state-of-the-art Vault-Tec technology. Morgan didn't bother to listen. At the end of their facility tour, they stopped in a room of pods, with many of their neighbors already inside them. "Decontamination," the doctor assured them.

Morgan couldn't help but inspect every aspect of the facility, still trembling even with Nate's arm wrapped around her. Crates of equipment - cover. The plastic batons the security guards wielded - breakable. The pipes along the walls could be burst. These jumpsuits - not bulletproof, or knifeproof. Form-fitting, but too brightly colored for stealth. Open toolboxes - improvised weapons.

At the end of the hall, two open pods waited for them. "I see you've brought your baby with you," the doctor said, smiling with uncaring eyes. "I'll hold him for you while you change into your-"

"No." Morgan jerked back, holding Sean tighter to her breast.

The smile faltered, but stayed. He stepped forward, arms outstretched like he was going to take Sean from her. "Ma'am, I can assure you, there's no need to-"

Morgan kicked at him, her heart pounding in her chest as she used both hands to hold onto her baby. "Don't _touch_ me." She felt the other doctors' eyes on her, and began calculating her odds. Enemies were weak, but she was outnumbered. Nate might try to stop her. Have to be fast. Can't let go of Sean. In the hall and around the corner was an unattended screwdriver. Could stab someone in the eye. Get their brain. Kill them instantly.

Nate, as if he could hear her thoughts, shook his head at her quickly. He licked his lips, and held out a hand to try and stop the doctor. "Please, let me-"

The doctor batted him away, pressing his lips together and giving Morgan a stern look. "Ma'am, I will call security if you are going to-"

"Just _try_ ," Morgan dared, eyes flashing.

"Doctor?" One of the nurses came forward, looking uneasy. "Is there-"

"No, Marie, don't-"

One of the guards peeked in through the doorway. "There a problem in here?"

Morgan saw a glint on the floor, where one of her neighbors had discarded his old clothes. She tucked Sean onto one arm and lunged for it, swiping the pocketknife and holding it up, blade out. The room stopped and stared at her, all frozen still.

It made her feel even more crazy. What was she doing? This was insane. _Everything_ was insane. She was miles underground, a baby in one hand and a goddamn pocketknife in the other, trying to fend of a least a dozen armed guards and scientists. She had nowhere to go. She felt herself backed into a corner, her hands shaking horribly and strands of dark hair covering her eyes, but she had no free hands to push them behind her ears. She looked like a madwoman.

"Morgan." Nate's voice caught her attention. When she stopped to focus on him, she realized how fast she was breathing. Nate stepped forward, taking the knife from her hand and maintaining eye contact. "Honey," he murmured, eyes sad as he cupped her cheek. "Where are we going to go?"

At first, Morgan took that as a challenge. Nate would hold Sean. She'd take down the doctors. She hadn't noticed stun guns, but she could deal with real guns. Take a pistol, shoot their way out, then-

Then what? She had nowhere to go.

She exhaled, and her heart slowed. Heat bloomed behind her eyes, her chin fell to her chest as she released the pocketknife. Tears threatened to spill over and roll down her cheeks, but the sting of pride kept her from crying. Nate placed the knife back with their neighbor's things, and took her back into the center of the room, keeping her beside him as he changed into his jumpsuit. By the time he took Sean from her so she could change clothes, she had gone silent, numb and disconnected from the world around her.

Nate caught her just before they stepped into their pods. "I know, love," he murmured. He offered a hopeful smile. "But it's okay. We're _safe_ here, I promise. I need you trust me, okay."

Morgan squeezed her eyes tight to pull herself together, to muster some kind of response. "I trust you," she said at last, her voice scratchy and tight. Her lip quivered, but she contained it. "I just don't trust this fuckin' place."

Nate smiled, and cupped his hand around her neck, pulling her closer to press a kiss to her forehead. "Go batshit on them _after_ we've been decontaminated of radiation, please." He gave her a weak smile. "I love you."

Morgan softened. "I love you too."

Nate squeezed the back of her neck. "See you on the other side, my love."

Then they climbed into their pods. Morgan gripped the seat tightly as the door swung down over her, a thin fiberglass window her only view of the outside. Nate looked back at her from the opposite pod, a reassuring smile on his face as he lifted Sean so she could see him. He held up one of the infant's arms, making him wave.

Morgan smiled, the small gesture tugging at her heartstrings and making her wave back. Then, cool clouds of mist filled the pods, making her shiver. She felt a deep sigh leave her, and shut her eyes against the whiteness.

Then she fell asleep.

* * *

Suddenly she was conscious again. Freezing, in some strange blackness where she couldn't feel anything. Where was she? Dead? Dreaming? A thick fog clouded her brain, keeping her from thinking clearly. She couldn't move. She couldn't even feel her arms or legs. Her body ached, though she wasn't entirely sure it was her body. Everything felt foreign, unnatural, cold.

One thought pierced the fog. Where was her baby?

Something melted on what she thought was her face, and she forced open her eyes, squinting against the cold and the sudden light. She blinked clicking, trying to get her eyes to focus. Distant voices caught her ears, though too muffled and far away to be understood. She grit her teeth and focused her hearing, trying to make out the works. Slowly, her sight returned, blurry and bright as if she'd been in darkness for too long.

"-the one. Here."

"Open it."

Why was everything so blue? What was going on? The sharp, sudden cry of a baby pierced the air, pulling her thoughts together as if by force. Sean. Sean, needed her, had to get up, had to think. She heard someone coughing, and remembered Nate was in front of her. The two voices belonged to two blurry figures, each standing beside Nate's pod. Didn't look like the scientists.

The scientists! Where were they?

Her revelations made her stop listening. She mentally shook her head and refocused. Now, one of the strangers had pointed a gun at Nate. Big gun, strong barrel. Not standard issue. Unlicensed. The stranger spoke in a voice that matched his gun, all hard and unfeeling and merciless. She hated him, hate the way he threatened her husband. Wanted to claw his eyes out.

One of the strangers was grasping at Sean, trying to pull him from Nate's stiff arms. Morgan felt hot tears building up in her eyes, her mouth trying to open and shout. Couldn't. Couldn't move, only watch.

"I'm not giving you Sean!" Nate's voice sounded so raw, harsh and guttural, like he hadn't spoken in forever. Sean screamed.

 _Boom_.

It sounded like the bombs all over again. Made her want to cover her ears and scream. Nate flung back against the seat of his pod. He wasn't saying anything anymore. Sean's cries echoed in the room, heart-wrenching wails that seemed too big for his body. Her skin burned like fire, and she couldn't move.

Through her rage she heard the voices still talking. She tried to focus on them, but a sharp jolt of fear ran through her when one of the strangers leaned towards her pod. Just within her perspective, letting her get a good look at his face.

"At least we still have the back-up."

She hated his voice, hated him, hated his gun. Hate, hate, hate, she burned with a damning rage, and somehow he must have seen it in her eyes. The smug, cruel smile on his face faded, replaced with something almost resembling fear. He leaned back, walked away, and he was gone.

The mist came back, and the world went white.

* * *

When she woke up next, flecks of ice melted on her skin, and each breath came easier than the last. Her insides felt frozen through, too cold even to shiver. Cold droplets of water dripped from her hair and down her jumpsuit, a vague sensation on her numbed skin. Her breath puffed in white clouds that faded away as her pod warmed.

Her numb fingers twitched, stiff and unresponsive. Shivers racked her body, made her struggle to breathe in between her shakes. She fumbled for the latch on the inside of the pod, the cold metal burning her frozen hands. When she couldn't push the door open, she braced herself against the back wall and kicked out, repeating the motion until her legs warmed enough she could summon her full strength.

She didn't know how long she spent kicking that door, dazed and cold and unfocused, but at some point the metal creaked and gave out. She managed to push it open and tumble out onto the floor, landing with a splat and a cry, like a newborn child. Morgan laid there for a few moments, breathing onto her hands, rubbing life and feeling back into her body. When she gained strength enough to stand, she blinked and stepped onto her feet, feeling cold drip down her jumpsuit.

She looked up, and almost on accident, her eyes fell on the window of Nate's pod.

Morgan breathed out, and heard the sigh leave her like someone's dying gasp. She took one, two, three trembling steps forward, eyes still fixated on the man behind that fiberglass window. She brushed her fingers over the pod door, and when it didn't budge, she thought to go to the control panel. She had no idea how to operate it, but pressed buttons until something clicked. The door hissed, and swung open, leaking more white mist onto the floor. There Nate sat, with crimson crystallized around his middle, his lips parted in an unfinished cry and his eyes wide and glassy.

Nate was dead.

Morgan's shaky breathing sounded deafening in the silent room. Nate wasn't dead. This was just a nightmare. Just a hallucination. She just needed to wake up. Just needed to take her meds. Just needed to close her eyes, do the grounding exercises her therapist had given her. So she did. Morgan closed her eyes, listening to her breathing. Remembered her name, her age, her hair color, the feeling of the ground beneath her feet.

She opened her eyes, and Nate was still dead.

The realization hit her like a blow to the chest. She crumpled, falling to her knees, ignoring the sharp sting of the impact. "Nate," she croaked. Terrible, aching pain bloomed in her chest. Her throat tightened and heat rose behind her eyes, and suddenly she was crying. She clawed at his pants, at his knees, grasped at his hand and felt how cold and clammy it was.

"Nate. Nate, please, Nate- I can't, I can't. I can't- please-"

Morgan buried her face in Nate's knees, wretched sobs rippling through her like waves. Her crying wasn't pretty. Tears streamed down her face, snot bubbled in her nose, and pitiful wails tearing from her lips with every sob. She needed the pain to stop, needed Nate, needed everything to go away.

If only she hadn't left her gun back at the house.

She sobbed until her chest hurt. Then, she staggered to her feet, turning back to the dripping husk of her pod. A jagged piece of broken latch jutted out from it, sharp and long like a knife. She wrenched it from the door, feeling the cold metal bite into her hand. She drew the sharp end of the broken latch across her right palm, whimpering as the skin tore and red blossomed along the cut.

She dropped the metal shard with a clatter and held her wrist with a shaking hand, keeping her palm open, staring at the blood as it pooled. Her hand ached with each beat of her heart, and the pain in her chest calmed, the poison draining from her through the gash on her hand. Her head cleared, and she stood upright.

She closed her hand and dug her fingernails into the heel of her palm, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth as blood dripped from her fist onto the floor. _You're wounded_ , her training told her. _Get a bandage. Get out. Find safety_.

Morgan turned towards the doorway, but hesitated. She looked back at Nate, taking in his appearance once last time. She watched his face as she touched the controls one more, the pod door sliding down over him. It sealed, and that familiar mist filled it, turning the glass in his eyes to ice. A final resting place. A tomb.

Morgan walked away, and didn't look back.

Her neighbors' shirts were shredded with the pocketknife to make bandages. Some bourbon, hidden in a desk, sterilized the wound. The cut was too thin to need stitching, but some tongue depressors and tied bandages made for a decent splint. Skeletons littering the floor revealed that the scientists had long since turned on one another. The storage rooms, which were supposed to hold some half-year's worth of supplies, were empty.

So she'd been in that pod for at least six months. But she didn't know when they'd taken Sean. And Nate's body was too well-preserved to figure out how long it had been since he was shot. So she had to go outside and see. A Pip-Boy 3000 Mark IV, still attached to the skeletal arm of one of the scientists, let her access the Vault controls and open that gear-shaped door. She had only walked through that door an hour ago, or so it felt. If an hour could become six months, how long had she been in stasis?

With her uninjured palm curled around a pistol she'd found, Morgan walked to the elevator's center and the gate door slid shut, the ground lurching beneath her feet as the platform rose. The journey up felt much shorter than she remembered coming down. When the doors above her screeched open, Morgan threw her arm over her eyes to shield them from the blinding surface light. When her eyes adjusted, she lowered her arm and squinted out over the hill.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Nothing she'd ever witnessed on the battlefield compared to the desolation stretching out in front of her. Skeleton houses falling to pieces, skeleton people clinging to one another. Trees, ripped and torn asunder. Dried grass, dusty rocks. A thousand things and lives broken and left to die. The green grass was faded and dry, and there were no lights or cars or children in the streets. All the world was dead, and she the sole survivor.

 _How long had she been out_?

Sudden, burning rage thrummed in her chest, making her limbs curl and flex. She sank to her knees and howled, burying her hands in her hair, the side of her pistol pressed to her head. She screamed, over and over again, rocking back and forth on the platform like a deranged animal. Nothing responded to her pain. Not even a bird flew away in response to the noise. She was alone.

Still bellowing hot, angry sobs, she grit her teeth and took her pistol in hand, holding it in front of her and bashing the end of the barrel into her forehead, feeling it bruise and cause more tears to stream down her cheeks. " _Do it_!" she shouted, still weeping. "Don't be a coward. Don't be a coward."

And yet her finger refused to pull the trigger. That dreadful, horrible, god damn frustrating survival instinct wouldn't let her rest. She clenched her right hand into a fist, felt warm and fresh blood seep into the bandages. Still shaking and sobbing, she rose and glared out over the ridge, beyond her neighborhood and at the wasteland before her.

"I'll find him," she breathed, voice rough from crying. "I'll kill you all if I have to fucking do it. I'm going to find my son."

The people that had taken Sean - they must have come after the bombs went off. That meant people were alive, somewhere. That was reason enough to start looking.

"I'm coming, Sean."


	2. Chapter One

Valentine's sign flickered as the door to his office slammed shut behind her. Morgan ran her fingers over the glowing letters, feeling the dull warmth behind the glass. The red neon cast a dull rose tint across her face and armor, making her blue-grey eyes look almost purple, her metal armor gleaming. She leaned against the wall beside the door, breathing a heavy sigh.

 _The Institute._

How fuckin' helpful. All that work, all those deaths. Putting up with the synth's pretentious 'film noir' bullshit and grandiose ideals of Pre-War morality. Only to be no closer to finding her son.

She ran a hand over her face, felt her gloved fingers leave traces of dirt on her already dirty skin. Another sigh. Weariness pulled at her shoulders, a sudden lack of purpose stilling her restless feet. Everyone had told her Nick Valentine would help her find her son. No- _could_ help her, not would. Wastelanders didn't make promises. Not unless caps were involved, and even then, the promise might be broken just as quickly. Two hundred years had done little to change people.

But now, after saving his ass from a group of wannabe gangsters, the detective had dismissed her with nothing but a theory to help her. Everybody and their mother blamed the Institute for everything. Blaming an ambiguous, omnipresent _deity_ for the loss of her child was about the same as saying "fuck you, your problem" right to her face. She wanted to say she was angry, but she was too damn tired and sad to be angry.

"I'm telling you, man, they exist."

Around the corner, a male voice rose in a sudden exclamation, then hushed. Morgan shifted closer to the corner, one ear perked.

"-ckin ridiculous, Bobby. What do you mean, they exist? Who would be dumb enough to do somethin' like that?"

"I dunno. Look, Roger, I'm only telling you what I heard. The Railro-"

"Quiet! You want the guards hearing you?"

A pause. Then, in a lower whisper: "The _Railroad_ is real. Not just some rumor or bullshit somebody made up to scare us. They're real. And they say you can find 'em, if you follow the Freedom Trail."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I don't _know_ what it means, Roger, if I did, I'd goddamn tell you. I'm just saying. Maybe... I don't know, man. Maybe I should look into it. Help me with this, will ya?"

Something metal shifted and clunked, as if being pulled out with great effort. A tool rooted around in unseen mechanics. "You better put that goddamn idea out of your head. That shit's above our paygrade, you hear me? Mayor'll take care of it."

"You really believe that, Rog?"

"Dunno. But Jane already lost a sister. She won't wanna lose a husband to the same bastards. Now, come on. Mayor wants this fixed by sundown. Don't want him knowing we were delayed because you wouldn't shut up about some dumbass Dugout gossip."

"Alright, alright."

And the alley went silent, leaving Morgan alone with her thoughts.

 _The Railroad._ She'd heard mention of them at Bunker Hill, and avoided the topic at the time. A group devoted to saving synths, creatures developed by the Institute and supposedly used to kill and kidnap Commonwealth residents. At the time, she hadn't cared either way. But now, after meeting Nick, and after her son being taken by the Institute - maybe she had more skin in the game than she thought. If the Railroad dealt with the Institute and their synths, they might know something about kidnappings. About Sean.

Morgan distantly remembered the Freedom Trail as a Pre-War tourist destination. She didn't know the route, but somebody had to.

Besides. She had nowhere better to be.

* * *

In any train station in Boston, racks of pamphlets for all the local tourist attractions lined every wall. It took Morgan half an hour to track down the nearest metro station, kill a few ghouls, and swipe a handful of pamphlets about the Freedom Trail. Even with gloves on, the two-hundred-year-old paper cracked and crumbled under her touch. But she got what she needed. She input a few coordinates into her Pip-Boy map and headed off.

It said the trail ended at the Old North Church. In the interest of being proactive, she'd head there first, to avoid all the nasties lining the Trail. But if that didn't yield any results, she'd retrace her steps along the trail. She didn't put it past an organization of synth-saving radicals to hide some sort of important clue along the route, but no point in making undue work for herself, either.

At face value, people who claimed to protect bodysnatching non-humans sounded ridiculous. Though Morgan had met Nick, most people seemed to agree that he was a special case, though they didn't have much proof aside from "he seems nice." In fact, no one seemed to have any proof of _anything_ outside of "people disappear a lot and this guy killed a bunch of people in Diamond City fifty years ago."

Thus, Morgan reserved judgment. People don't risk their lives on something if there isn't some truth behind it. And, until she found out what that truth was, she'd give them a fair chance to explain themselves. And, if they were full of shit, she'd lie to them as long as she needed in order to get to Sean.

Morgan found that keeping to the rooftops was safer than taking the roads, though she had to keep a lookout for turrets and spotlights. Boston had a lot of old buildings, and old buildings were often squished together, making for narrow alleyways and easily jumpable roofs. From fire escape to rooftop to crumbling balcony, she made her way to the roof of the Old North church.

She shimmied down the wall to find one of the second-story windows. Bracing herself on the sloping shingles, she took a breath and smashed the window panes with the butt of her weapon, wrapped with cloth so to muffle the sound. She nudged away the shards to slip inside unscathed, and hopped down onto the interior balcony, overlooking the heart of the church.

A few ghouls shuffled around the pews beneath her, tripping over rubble and debris. A few rifle shots sent them to the floor, their dying rasps making her shiver. Once the room was clear, she hopped down and scanned her surroundings. She expected traps, bugs, security cameras - all the things she was trained to look for. Instead, she found a glowing green hallway, and a chalk lantern drawn onto some debris.

A good a clue as any.

Down the hallway led to some stairs, and down the stairs led into some dark, dusty brick catacombs. Within the catacombs, more ghouls lurked, all moaning and shuffling and making her skin crawl. Though the noise from her shotgun hurt her ears in the enclosed space, they were good for clearing out clustered of unruly undead.

But soon, the hall ended, leaving her with just the glow of her Pip-Boy and the smell of mold for company. In the wall at the end there was a disc, embedded in the stone, letters and images etched into the metal. _The Freedom Trail,_ the letters read.

Morgan poked it. Nothing.

Knocking against the bricks around the disc caused a hollow sound. Interest piqued, Morgan hefted her gun and hammered the butt of it into the wall until it crumbled. Shining her Pip-Boy light inside revealed a mass of wiring and mechanics. But, she thought, nibbling her lower lip, it'd take far too long to break down the whole wall with only her rifle.

"I didn't think to bring a pickaxe," she said, addressing no one in particular. "My bad."

She'd got in the habit of talking to herself after these few months in the wasteland. Around others, she held her cards close to her chest and spoke and one-and-two word sentences. But, alone, the sound of her own voice was the only human comfort she had. And even then, the rusty edge to her voice made her flinch.

Morgan nudged one of the wheels, and raised her eyebrows when it moved, giving easily and clicking like a lock's chambers. Listening carefully, she made out the sounds of gears and switches falling into place, only to reset when she guessed the wrong letter. Morgan scowled, and pulled a pen and paper out of her pack, grumbling under her breath. Through process of elimination, she went through each letter. R, then A, then I… L… R…

Oh.

"I," Morgan announced, "am fucking stupid."

She input _Railroad_ and the lock clicked. Bits of brick and a thick shower of dust clouded the air as the wall opened. A dark room waited on the other side of the wall, its shadow impenetrable even with her Pip-Boy light.

Tentatively, she stepped into the room. "Hello?" She lingered in the doorway, feeling the soles of her shoes scrape against the brick. "I have grenades," she pointed out.

With the heavy sound of an industrial switch, the lights came on with a loud hum. Morgan flinched, and jerked an arm over her eyes, left hand holding tight to her rifle. A commanding, female voice came from the light. "There's no need for violence. Unless that is your intent."

Morgan's eyes adjusted and she lowered her arm, squinting into the brightness. Standing atop the bricks on the other side of the room were three figures. One, with white hair and a rather large gun. Another, a stern woman with a vest and tired lines carved into her face. And the third, some twenty-something in a cap, carrying a pipe rifle. Morgan ran the numbers in her head. Middle figure was unarmed, her armor could take the third's dinky pipe bullets. But that big gun put the odds against her.

"Not here for violence," she said, wrapping both hands around her weapon. "I'm here for answers."

"We could say the same," the stern woman replied. "You didn't follow the Freedom Trail. How did you know how to find us?"

Morgan reached for her pack, freezing as the two bodyguards twitched. "Not going for a weapon," she said. From her bag, she summoned the crumbling pamphlet from the metro station. "Proof." She held it up, displaying the page with the Trail route on it. "Some people heard a rumor that you could find the Railroad by following the Freedom Trail, and I knew that was a big tourist attraction Pre-War. I played it smart."

"And you expect us to believe that?" Though the stern woman feigned disinterest, Morgan could see the sharp glint in her eye. Now they were testing the waters - looking to see who would drop their guard first.

Morgan shrugged, though her gaze was steady. "Haven't shot at you, have I? If I was here with back-up, you would have seen them by now, and if I came to kill you, I'd have done it already. Or been less particular about unlocking your door, rather than blowing it up. Like I said. I'm here for answers."

"Why?"

Morgan's brow burrowed. "Why, what?"

"Why search for answers? I'm sure you've heard the stories. Most people already know how they feel about synths. Why bother talking to the people who save them?"

"But that's the point, isn't it?" Morgan prodded. "You do save them. Which makes no sense, given what everyone's told me. Something doesn't make sense, and I want to know why. Why it is you do what you do."

Not entirely a lie. She was here for Sean, sure, though they didn't need to know that yet. No, she meant what she said. Morgan liked having all the details before making a decision, and if she was going to go against the Institute, she needed to know what she was dealing with.

"I see." The stern woman narrowed her eyes and gave Morgan a quick once-over. Then, pressing her lips together, she arrived at her decision. "The Railroad believes synths are human beings," she began. "The Institute creates these synths to do their bidding - such as with the incident in Diamond City, as I'm sure you're aware of. But many of these synths are sentient, and wish to escape their lives as slaves. They are human, and as virtuous or fallible as you or I. The Railroad has taken on the job of giving them a new, better life, of helping them integrate into society without fear of being reclaimed by their Institute masters or harmed by their fellow man."

Morgan nodded, slowly. "Then, how do you know which ones are programmed by the Institute, and who have free will? If they do have free will, like you claim."  
"That would require an explanation too complicated for the present." The stern woman lowered her chin, fixing Morgan with a piercing look. "But. Answer me this - are you the kind of person to risk your life for someone? For a cause?"

"No." Morgan didn't miss the way their faces hardened. But she would not lie. "People are responsible for themselves and their own actions. I won't throw my life away for something I don't believe in."

 _Not again._

"But if you did believe," the stern woman persisted. "If you thought it was the right thing to do."

"I don't believe in greater goods. Either the person is good or not. Synth, human, ghoul - whatever. I help them if they're worth helping. But don't ask me to believe." Morgan ran her tongue over her teeth. "I don't appreciate pointed, recruiting questions, either. Keep your moral quandaries to yourselves."

"Can I get a word in before the shooting starts?"

A new voice joined the fray. From the hallway behind the trio, a stranger in a t-shirt and jeans sauntered out, drawing the room's attention. Beneath gleaming sunglasses, a charming smile split his lips. Dark hair sticky with pomade swept up at the top of his head, and his fair skin looked fairer in the bright light. His untied shoelaces skidded across the bricks as he walked. "You're having a party. What gives with my invitation?"

The stern woman scowled. "Enough theatrics, Deacon. What's the intel?"

The man - Deacon - shrugged, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I got nothing, boss. All we know for sure is that she showed up out of that vault up north. No other notable affiliations, except for a handful of farming towns she helped out on the way to Diamond City. And she showed up just like she said. Skipped the trail, spun the wheel of fortune. She's a real prodigy." He turned and gave Morgan a toothy smile, eyebrows waggling over his sunglasses.

Morgan stared back without blinking.

"Would you vouch for her?" the stern woman asked.

Deacon paused, thinking for a moment. "Even if she's not exactly prime do-gooder material, Des, she'd be a good asset. And she's here, after all. That's got to count for something."

The stern woman breathed a long sigh out of her nose. At last, she uncrossed her arms and met Morgan's eyes. "My name is Desdemona," she said. "I'm the leader of the Railroad. I know you don't trust the idea of a… higher calling. But you must understand, very few people think to ask your questions. Even fewer make it this far. All I ask is that you give us a chance. If you really want to make an informed decision, or learn more about what we do, then talk to Deacon. He'll tell you what you can do to help out."

Then, Desdemona left, her two bodyguards following her down the hall behind them. That left just Morgan and Deacon, standing alone in the suddenly silent room. Deacon still wore that same smart, disarming smile on his face. Morgan didn't care for it. It didn't look unkind, but not entirely truthful, either. His smile looked like that of a man who'd lie spare your feelings, or his, depending on the circumstances.

"Hope you didn't mind the reception," Deacon said, hopping off the bricks to meet her on the floor. "When you tango with the Institute you gotta be careful when someone new arrives on the dance floor."

"I can live without the niceties," Morgan stated. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as he approached, and she resisted the urge to walk back, to keep distance between them.

"Much appreciated. So, I meant to ask you - what's the deal with that vault you popped out of? We don't get a lot of Vault Dwellers in this neck of the woods. They tend to be a little squishy. Not good at life in the big city." Again with that toothy smile.

"That's none of your business."

"Well, actually, it is. A little bit. I'm intel. I'm supposed to ask questions, get the 'down low' on everything going on around the Commonwealth." He even did the air quotes. "And what makes it especially odd is how you were the only one that crawled out of there."

"Do you know something I don't?" she said, and it was sharper than she meant it to be. She didn't like this man. She didn't like his questions, his sunglasses, or the easy way he approached her.

"Whoa, no, nothing like that." He put up his hands in quick surrender. "Nothing like that, honest. I'll give it to you straight - most people in the Commonwealth can't read, let alone hold a gun like you do and pull off all that critical thinking. So, I figure there's gotta be some kinda deal with your home vault. And, being perfectly honest, as I often am, a while back we got wind of some Institute activity going on up north. I'm just curious if you know anything about that."

He _did_ know something. Morgan found her breaths coming quicker than she liked. How did he know so much? Had he been following her? How did he know about the settlements she helped, or the way she fought. And how did he know about the Institute being at her vault? Did that mean Sean had been taken by the Institute? It wasn't just Nick Valentine fucking with her?

"Hello? Anyone home?" Deacon waved a hand at her.

Morgan shook her head, pushing away her thoughts. This whole situation unnerved her, but the only way she was going to get some answers was by putting up with this fucker. She'd do what she had to. "No," she said at last. "I don't know anything about that. But everyone else in my vault died off, so I figured I'd give it a shot out here."

"I'm sorry to hear that." His voice sounded too careful to be genuine. "Sorry if I offended you, too. You need some time to think about things, or are you up for doing some dirty work?"

"Dirty work," she said, almost at once. For a brief moment, she scanned the lenses of his sunglasses, trying to read through them. "I'm here for answers. Give me them."

"Glad to hear it." Deacon tapped the side of his nose. "I can't reveal all the details just now, but how about this. You and I go on our merry way down to the old freeway, down by Lexington. Get to know each other. Truth or dare. Good times."

Morgan clenched her jaw. "Fine."

"Really?"

"No truth or dare."

"Aw, damn. Well, I'll take what I can get." He put out his hand, the other sliding into his pocket. "Shake on it?"

Morgan looked at his hand for a moment, considering her options. "Fair." She clasped his hand in her own and shook it, just for a second before retracting her palm and stuffing it into her pocket, trying to wipe away the feel of human touch.

Deacon smiled.


	3. Chapter Two

Lexington seemed much farther away than Morgan remembered.

"How'd you get those scars?"

"Fight."

"What fight?"

"Big one."

"Can you be more specific?"

"No."

Deacon sighed. "My job is intel, you know. I'm supposed to know more about you? And I can't do that if you keep replying in five words or less."

Morgan ignored his whining. "Did you follow me after I left the vault?"

"That is a very pointed accusation, ma'am."

" _Did_ you?"

"Is pleading the fifth an option?"

"I could just turn the fuck around and drop you back off at the Railroad."

"Touch-ee."

"Are you trying to say _touché_?"

"Say lah vee. Bonbon oon lah fromage."

Morgan halted with a stomp of her foot, soil clinging to her boot as she turned around and headed for the church.

"Does it make you feel better if I swear I didn't follow you?"

She stopped, looking back over her shoulder with a glower. Deacon stood a few paces behind, looking expectant. "No," she said.

"And why is that?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you."

"Then you're already doing better than half of our new recruits." With a beckon of his hand, he continued towards the Lexington freeway, walking into its shadow.

Morgan cursed and followed him, catching up a moment later. "Is all this bullshit part of the initiation process, or is it just you being a bastard?"

"Does it matter?"

"It lets me know how badly I should want to kill you."

"You know, I don't think you're a very nice lady," Deacon said, wagging a finger at her. "Do me a favor and turn around?"

Morgan arched a brow.

"No, I mean it. I have to change clothes. Unless you dig middle-aged man bod, and even then, I'm a little particular about who gets to look at my rear end."

"Why do you have to change clothes?"

"I'll tell you after?"

Morgan rolled her eyes and turned around. "I'd still like to know if you were following me."

"I was!" Deacon announced. Behind her, Morgan heard his shirt hit the ground. "Like I said before. The Institute's nosed around that Vault a time or two - we didn't know why, so we've kept an eye on it for the past sixty years or so."

 _Sixty years_. Morgan filed that information away for later, but didn't dwell on it. "And you saw me come out?"

Deacon hummed agreement. "Yep. I was hoping to learn a little more about you. Maybe even convince you to join our little gang. Except, getting intel is a little difficult if the newest recruit to Grumpy Mercenaries and Co. never talks to anyone, least of all about herself."

"Maybe I don't like people knowing things about me. I'm also not a mercenary."

"Uh, I thought someone who gets paid to kill things was the _definition_ of mercenary."

Morgan grunted, drumming her fingers into the crook of her elbow with a scowl. "I don't get paid to kill things. I get paid to _do_ things, and I have to kill things along the way."

"Sure seems like a lot of your jobs involve killing things along the way."

Morgan almost turned around, but heard the clink of a belt buckle and cringed, keeping her eyes focused on the horizon in front of her. "And how much do you know about the jobs I do?" she asked, voice laden with false cordiality.

The man went quiet for a half second before continuing. "I wasn't watching you while you sleep, if that's what you mean," he said, carefully. "But I needed to know where you would fall on the ol' moral spectrum. Friend or foe, and all that."

Despite herself, Morgan smirked. "And what am I?" she asked, voice low and menacing.

"Trying too hard?"

The smile vanished, replaced with a displeased scowl. "Funny."

"Yup. That's me. Funny. You'd be surprised how useful a skill comedy is, when people are constantly trying to kill you."

"Ever think they're trying to kill you _because_ of the comedy?"

"I can't believe you'd say that." Deacon clapped his hands together, almost startling her. "Well? Take a look."

Somewhat reluctantly, Morgan turned and ran her eyes over him. His simple t-shirt and jeans had been replaced by an old patched suit, and he wore worn boots instead of his untied converse shoes. A battered hat atop his head covered a bald head, with no sign of his pomade-slick dark hair from before.

Deacon grinned. "Wastelander camo. Hey, listen to this." He cleared his throat and turned his voice deep and throaty, curling his shoulders back and coiling the muscles in his arms. "This is my pile of garbage, asshole. Back off." The tension in his body dissipated, and he tilted his head back to laugh. "Great, right? You should feel lucky I didn't do one of my face swaps."

Morgan grunted. "How'd you shave your head so fast?"

"I didn't. Wigs are a magical thing. But!" He pressed his hands together. "You wanted to know why I changed. _Well_. You and I are about to head into an old Railroad base. See, the Railroad's only recently been using the Old North Church. Our old HQ was under a Slocum's Joe. A Pre-War coffee place, in case you didn't-"

"I know what a Slocum's Joe is."

"Cool. Well, we had a pretty sweet set-up there until the Institute found us."

"They found you?" Morgan's eyebrows shot into her forehead.

"Shocked?"

"A little," she admitted, brow furrowing. "I guess I just thought once you guys were caught, you know, you were caught. The Institute doesn't seem the type to leave survivors."

"Well. Without going into detail? There used to be a lot more of us." Deacon lowered his chin, smile dimming. "We had to leave behind in a big hurry, and the people who did survive didn't have time to grab anything but the essentials. So we're here to get something important we had to leave behind."

"What's the catch?" There was always a catch.

"Recon says the place is crawling with Institute synths. Which, by the way, is why I had to change. They'll be on the lookout for returning agents. If you and I just look like a pair of scavvers, it won't be so bad if we die." He smiled cheerfully. "But, for the moment, we're going to have to go in through the back entrance. Hope you don't mind getting wet."

Morgan bit back a sigh, and nodded. "Lead the way."

* * *

At the back of a lake near the Slocum's Joe, they found a drainage pipe covered with vines and weeds. Pushing through the slick overgrowth, the "pipe" revealed a stone wall housing a cool metal door. Deacon pushed it open and stepped into the blue-lit room within, with a closed door at the far wall. "We're in," he said, sounding too much like a secret agent in a bad cop show. "This entrance is safer, but be ready for Gen 1s and 2s."

"Gens 1s and 2s?" Morgan repeated, looking around.

"Oh. Right. Geez. I forgot to tell you about those." Deacon scratched the back of his neck. "How cool are you with heavy exposition?"

"I've got nothing better to do."

"Gotta love a captive audience." Deacon wiped dust off a lifeless terminal in a corner of the room. Clearing his throat, he leaned against it and addressed her. "The synths didn't start off as nigh perfect copies of human beings. The Institute had to work up to that level of hubris. Gen 1s and 2s were stepping stones along the way. Metal and plastic prototypes, without complete free will. The Railroad's not fully united on how we feel about them."

Morgan prompted him when he trailed off. "What do you mean, not fully united?"

Deacon sighed. "Everyone wants to liberate the Gen 3s. The human looking synths, with sentience. But some people in the Railroad think we should help earlier models, too. But Gen 1s are basically the same as, well, a Protectron. So the line gets muddy. Do we defend AI rights? Terminals? Hell, turrets? But anytime it gets brought up?" He flared his hands, making a soft exploding sound. "Fireworks. All the old arguments flare up. The upshot is some agents won't run missions like this."

Morgan thought for a moment, drumming her fingers on her rifle. "You say the Gen 3s look human. But that's the whole point. The Institute makes them to look human. When do they cross the line between a cleverly made puppet and something sentient?"

"Puppets don't try to escape. A lot of synths don't remember, or don't talk about, their lives back before meeting us. So our intel is dated and confusing at best. But everyone we've talked to says the same thing. The Institute makes synths so they can be slaves, and do all the dirty work the Institute doesn't want to handle itself. Sweeping floors, manual labor, running errands in the Commonwealth - and so on. From what we've heard, there's a lot of scare tactics and threats that go on, too." He shrugged. "We don't have a lot of hard data. We do, however, have a lot of synths that desperately want to get away, and have integrated safely in society. We're just trying to do the best we can." He raised his eyebrows, smiling. "Good?"

"For now." Morgan stopped her drumming and hefted her rifle. "How do we get in?"

"Like so." With a flourish, Deacon turned to the terminal, tapping and muttering away for a few moments before the closed door swung open. "After you."

Morgan grunted and crouched down, creeping into the hallway. Through the hall, they entered into a sloping room, where they fought to keep their footing. A handful of old, brick pillars held up the ceiling, and at the foot of the room, water pooled. Each of them hiding behind a pillar, Morgan peeked out to get her first good look at a synth.

Pacing through the murky pools, the synth eyed the room through a strange, rusted faceplate. One leg was humanoid, held in shaped, moldy plastic. The other was just metal bars, with creaking gears for joints and exposed cabling running down into its foot. It had _teeth_. Two hunks of metal, each glued to the top and bottom of its mouth, and carved into the shape of teeth. Its eyes glowed a dull gold, and exposed wires and circuits sparked around its neck. In its hands, it clutched a too-clean laser pistol, fancier even than anything Morgan remembered from before the war.

She stared, frozen in morbid fascination. Then, in her peripheral vision, she saw Deacon flapping his hands at her, trying to get her to focus. Nodding at him, she hoisted her rifle, aiming for the synth's head and hoping. A single shot burst through its metal skull, and it staggered, then collapsed. It landed in the pool with a splash, and dark fluid leaked from its head into the water. Then, something popped and sparked in its chest before going dark.

For a moment, she stilled. It wasn't that she hadn't killed before. She had - too many to count, and of every kind of creature. But this. This synth was different. Fresh. Alien. Something about it felt like she'd done something she couldn't take back.

She pushed the feeling aside and moved on.

Past the synth and down a dark stairwell, Morgan caught the sound of distant creaking metal. Through a labyrinth of aged brick and rusted pipes, more synths greeted them around every corner. Though, for all their intimidating builds, they fell to the ground after a handful of bullets. Soon, Morgan and Deacon escaped the maze, finding themselves in a room blocked by a double door. Two wide windows beside the door showed them a military-looking room full of synths, all milling about with those same strange pistols in hand.

The pair took cover on opposite sides of the room, behind broken electronics and empty desks. As the synths marched around, rusty joints creaking, the pair met each other's eyes. "Too many," Morgan murmured. "Have to reveal ourselves."

"I'll cover you," Deacon whispered. "Stay low. Be careful."

Nodding, Morgan lifted her rifle and peered down the sights. A synth walked into view, and she fired, shattering the window with a sharp crash. The synth staggered and crumpled, its weapon skidding across the floor. Deacon followed up a half-second later, sending the second-nearest synth to the ground. Then, in unison, the other synths moved to action, babbling protocols and falling behind cover. Seconds later, blue laser fire showered through the broken windows.

Morgan switched to her shotgun and charged forward, kicking open the door and shielding her face from the searing lasers. She slid into cover and held the line as Deacon assisted from the rear, blowing the brittle synths to bits with each powerful shot. In a few moments, the room went silent, the synths lying in dark, soundless heaps on the floor. Morgan hissed as she stood upright, her adrenaline fading and making her laser burns sting. She pulled a pair of stimpacks from her back. "Catch," she said, and tossed one to Deacon as she injected the other into her ribs.

The man caught and used it without a word. Morgan took a moment to examine her surroundings, head swiveling in a circle as she looked around the room. It appeared to be some kind of military bunker. She'd been in enough military bunkers to know.

Deacon piped up behind her. "We're entering a secret Defense Intelligence Agency research lab. A place that never officially existed. It's called The Switchboard."

"Makes sense. An organization that's never been seen, living in a place that doesn't exist. Classy."

"See?" Deacon said, almost pleased. "You're catching on."

They liberated the main room of any worthwhile loot and went upstairs, encountering a hallway laced with laser tripwires. An ominous metal globe hung from the ceiling. Morgan paused, pressing her lips together. "I hate hallways," she announced. Then, she pointed to the wall beside the doorway. "Stand there." Deacon stood without argument, waiting to see what she'd do. Morgan took a breath and shouted. "Hey!" Then she stood on the opposite side of the doorway, both of them out of sight.

Beyond the hallway, synthetic voices babbled security codes. "Intruder detected," several said, repeating the phrase over and over. The first synth stomped through one of the tripwires, a bolt of electricity snapped from the globe on the ceiling. The synth went down, twitching. The other synths stopped, frozen still as their programming changed strategies, and a moment later they began disarming the tripwires.

When the first synth walked through the doorway, all tripwires deactivated, Morgan whirled around and shattered its skull with a shotgun blast, bits of metal and circuitry skidding across the floor. Half a dozen synths followed suit. Railroad on one side, Institute on the other, firing blindly back and forth across a narrow hallway. The synths hid and aimed well, but they were slow, letting Morgan and Deacon pick them off one by one as they dashed across the hallway or knocked into their peers. At last, rusty limbs and lightless eyes littered the floor.

Beyond that, few synths remained. The last few were harder to kill, with more of their bodies intact, one even possessing a humanoid face instead of unsettling eyes and teeth. The whole thing gave Morgan the willies, even worse so than ghouls. But she hadn't come this far for nothing, and after switching to her rifle, headshots cleared out the remaining rooms within a few minutes.

When she stopped to reload her weapon and pop a can of purified water, Deacon nodded approvingly at the bodies. "I gotta say. That was a little awesome." She saw the way his head tilted towards her, trying to gauge her reaction.

She didn't give him the satisfaction. "Just another day," she breathed, wiping water from the corner of her mouth. "Hostiles cleared. What are we looking for?"

"This." Deacon walked to the end of the room, stopping in front of a terminal and turning it on. Beside the terminal, an imposing bank-vault style door reached from the floor to the ceiling. Deacon placed a holotape into the terminal player, and a male voice emanated from the speakers, reciting a code. The vault lock clicked and spun, and the door swung open with a heavy creak. "Open says me," he said cheerfully, and stepped into the room.

Behind the door revealed some kind of storage area. Trampled cardboard boxes dotted the ground, with papers strewn across the ground. In the corner, a slumped-over corpse sat beside a fallen shelving unit. Deacon stood in the room for a moment, unmoving, head pointed at the corpse. Quietly, he padded over and knelt down beside it, murmuring under his breath and taking something from it. Stuffing the object into his pocket, he stood upright, feigning nonchalance. "Grab Carrington's prototype," he said, waving at one of the shelving units still standing at the left wall. "You turn that over to Desdemona and she'll have to let you into our merry band."

Morgan scanned the shelves and grabbed the object indicated. It didn't look particularly important, but then, there was still a lot Deacon hadn't told her. For all she knew, this little device was some secret Railroad weapon. Or, maybe, it was an excuse to take her on a mission and see how she fared in intense combat, with Deacon's smart mouth for company. Whether it was a test, a normal mission, or just an excuse to fuck with her, the job was nearly done.

"That all?"

"Just about," Deacon said, hiding his hands in his pockets and standing between her and the corpse. "We'll have to head back the way we came, unless you want to fight our way out and leave via minefield."

"I'll take the long walk instead." Morgan hesitated. "You good?"

"Fine," he chirped.

"Cool." Let him lie. She didn't need to know his secrets. Yet. "Let's go."

* * *

They returned to HQ at sundown, when Deacon stopped her halfway through the catacombs. "Let me go up ahead," he said, hands up in a soothing gesture. "I'll give Des the rundown. Butter her up and get her in a good mood, so then you can dazzle her with our success." He flashed a disarming smile at her. "Give it ten, then come in after me."

Then he ran off. Morgan opened her mouth and reached out to argue, but he'd already jogged into the darkness. Morgan sighed, and stayed where she was.

She still wasn't sure how she felt about all this. A coffee shop bunker, robot people, the most talkative man she'd met in months - all of it. Deacon's speech in the Switchboard, about the Gen 1s and 2s, _that_ had caught her interest. Maybe there was more to this "synth freedom" thing than she thought. Or maybe he was just a liar, and was telling her what he thought she wanted to hear.

Deacon had followed her from the vault. Lied to her, then told the truth, or what she thought was the truth. In the Switchboard, she'd expected him to be a liability, especially since she had so few people skills. But he'd made himself somewhat useful. He seemed to care for the corpse they found in the storage room. How much of that was an act to gain her sympathy?

Morgan shook her head. Just like when she'd shot the synth, she couldn't help the sensation that there was more going on here. Stuff going on behind the scenes. Something about Deacon seemed too intentional, right down to the pointed jokes designed to get a response from her. It wasn't the lies that bothered her - she was used to deception. If anything, Deacon being so blatant about it was better than trying to keep it secret. She trusted an honest liar more than someone who fancied themselves a hero.

She just wished she knew if this was the right thing to do.

"If _only_ she were _here_ to give _her_ side of the _story_!" Deacon's voice echoed in the catacombs. Morgan shook her head and ran forward, stumbling into the Railroad entrance room. Desdemona was there, standing on the bricks with a glower as Deacon gesticulated. " _There's_ the woman of the hour!" the man declared. "See, I'm telling you, Des. Great work. Killed all the things, like-" He stuck his hands out as if he were holding a gun. "- _blam_! And- _blam_!" He dropped his hands. "The mission went like a dream. You've got to let her aboard."

"Sure," Des stated, looking dubious. Her gaze switched to Morgan. "How'd it go?" she asked, quirking a brow.

Morgan padded into the room. "It went," she said, uneasily. "Not too hard. The synths were less durable than I expected. Device recovered." She reached into her bag, and handed over the item.

Desdemona looked it over, and tucked it into her back pocket. "Did Deacon give you a hard time?"

"Yes."

" _I_ ," Deacon said, raising a finger, "added the element of psychological stress to the mission. My involvement was critical. Part of her training."

Desdemona ignored him, fixing her gaze on Morgan. "I was expecting Deacon to grab a full team, including Glory, to secure that prototype. But instead, just the two of you cleared out the entire Switchboard."

"You'd be insane not to sign her up, Des," Deacon prodded.

"You've certainly made an impression on Deacon," Desdemona allowed, sounding reluctant. "And from what Deacon's told me, the way you think and fight would be a good fit with our organization. I understand you still have a lot of questions. And I'm willing to assist with the ones I have answers to. But to join the Railroad, I need to know that we have your loyalty. Some of our members are here to free synths. Others want to harm the Institute in any way they can. And still others are here because they believe we are the best choice for helping the Commonwealth as a whole. I don't want you here if you are hesitant. Indecision can be dangerous in our line of work, and I want your mind to be made up."

Morgan took a moment to think before speaking. "I said I was here for answers," she said at last. "And Deacon gave me a few of them on the job. Maybe I don't understand everything that's going on, yet, or care that deeply about the cause. But I wouldn't betray you, because I think this is bigger than what I first assumed. I don't know what you'll want me to do, and if I don't like it I won't do it, but I'm here with an open mind. That's all I can promise."

"That'll have to do." Desdemona gave her a solemn nod. "Welcome to the Railroad, agent. Now you need a codename. Secrecy is the lifeblood of our organization - you'll need an alias to survive. What would you like to be called?"

 _Morgan_ blinked. A name? All the things they've asked of her thus far, and now they want a _name_? She racked her brain for something sensible. "Fixer," she blurted. Plain, but it fit well enough.

Desdemona nodded again. "Well, Fixer. It's time you met the rest of us."

Then Morgan followed into the mysterious dark hallway, into the inner workings of the Railroad. Beyond the dim catacombs lay a cluster of century-old sarcophagi and low-hanging ceilings. Skeletons winked at her from the depths of their crumbled stone coffins, littered around the room. Desks and workshops filled every available space, crammed into walls and against brick pillars. Chalkboards and pieces of paper were nailed into walls, covered with strange symbols and bearing the chickenscratch of unfamiliar writing. All kinds of people walked to and fro around the pillars. Old, young, black, white, well-dressed or covered in armor. One by one, Desdemona introduced Morgan to them, each code name paired with a face she forgot as soon as they moved on.

Morgan tried to figure out any social subtleties, tried to read the situation, but emotions were never her strong suit. No, she didn't know what they were thinking, but she could feel their eyes on the back of her head. She saw the pile of surplus weaponry, hanging out in the open and not maintained properly. She saw the mostly-empty medkits with one or two stimpacks inside, maybe some Buffout if they were lucky. And, in the center of the room, she saw the desk of operations. A large, round table, with a map of the Commonwealth spread out across it, various carved wooden pieces sitting atop it.

And, perhaps most important of all, they didn't remind her of the military.

At last Desdemona stopped, informed her that introductions were over, and left her standing dazedly beside a ratty couch. Morgan took a breath and sat down on it, wincing as an exposed spring pressed into her side. She shifted, and stared out at the room, grateful that she'd been momentarily forgotten.

Well, forgotten by _almost_ everyone. Deacon flopped onto the couch beside her, his heavy landing making the frame creak. "So?" he asked. "What do you think?" Morgan realized she'd lost track of him during introductions. Bastard was probably watching from the shadows the whole time.

"What's your deal?" she said, turning her head aside and giving him a stern look. "Why are you giving me such a hard time? You can't be as stupid as you act."

A now-familiar smile spread across his lips. "You really wanna know?"

"If I didn't, would I have asked?"

"Maybe." Deacon looked out across the room, taking in the quiet atmosphere for a moment before continuing. "Like I said before. The Railroad wasn't always down here. Back at the Switchboard, we had a lot more people, a lot more resources. Here, we're low on everything, but we're trying to get by. We desperately need new members, but we don't have the time or resources to play the getting-to-know-you game.

"If you'd come out of that vault with nothing but a jumpsuit and bad mood, I probably wouldn't have followed you. I might have stuck around to make sure you made it to Diamond City, but after that, it wasn't my problem. But you." He tapped the side of his nose. "You know what you're doing. And, even after whatever you've been through, you stopped to help people on your _way_ to Diamond City."

"For the caps," Morgan stated. "I needed money and a place to rest."

"You didn't get paid for getting that necklace from those raiders, and then bringing it back to the dead girl's parents at Abernathy Farm."

"I got _some_ money," she hedged.

"That was pocket change for food. Not merc money."

"Maybe I didn't _know_ how much money it was. I'd just come out of the vault."

"Maybe, except you sold some of your stuff to those same farmers. You knew the going rate for most things. And, later, you stopped by Drumlin Diner to do some _more_ trading. Where," he said, lifting a finger, "you helped poor mom and drugged out son fight off some displeased businessmen."

Morgan huffed air out through her nose. "What's your point, asshole?"

"My point is that, even being as messed up as you were, you stopped to try and do good things. You were a good person, a good shot, and just screwed up enough you might consider joining our dysfunctional little family." Deacon shifted on the couch. "A lot of people come to us because they have nowhere else to go," he admitted, in a softer voice. "Not just synths."

For a moment, she almost believed him. Then she hardened. "And how do I know you're not just telling me what I want to hear?"

Morgan swore he almost smiled. A real smile, too. "You don't!" Deacon chirped. "You don't know a thing. For all you know, we're a big bunch of conspiracy theorists who're gonna lobotomize you when you go to sleep tonight. I mean, _I'm_ definitely a liar. Look at me. It's obvious."

Morgan bit back a half-smile. "But that doesn't answer my question. You're giving me a hard time. Why?"

"Because working for us is a hard gig," Deacon stated, going serious. "You're expected to risk your life for people you might never see again, for a cause we're not even sure is the right one, all while being drip-fed information, because revealing too much to one person puts us all at risk." He gestured to the room. "If you can put up with _my_ bullshit? You stand a chance at doing a lot of good for us. But, the question is…" He tilted his head to the side. "What do you think _we_ can do for _you_?"

Morgan blinked, and stared at him for a few seconds. "That's my business," she said.

Deacon shrugged. "Fair. Figured I wouldn't get the whole answer out of you. Yet, anyway. But." He clapped his hands together. "I _do_ have a proposition for you. No, don't raise your eyebrow like that, it's fine, I promise. Just don't laugh."

"I make no promises."

Again, with the almost-genuine smile. "What do you say to letting me tag along with you?"

Morgan drew back an inch, bristling. "Not a fan of companions," she said.

Deacon held up a reassuring palm. "Neither am I, as a matter of fact. But you're a real diamond in the rough, I think. If you want to do more Railroad work, maybe get a better feel for what we're doing here, it'd be best if you had an experienced chaperone to go with you. Plus, I'm intel. My job is to wander around and listen to people, and I figure you're gonna be doing a lot of wandering around and listening. Think of me as your sidekick. I watch your back, get some info to bring back to Des, and offer my wisdom on being an agent. And you can say no or send me back to HQ at any time. What do you say?"

Morgan maintained her dubious expression, looking between his sunglasses and his outstretched palm. But, at last, she nodded. "Fine."

"Fantastic. I'll go get my stuff."

Morgan stared off into space as he left. A small part of her wondered if she hadn't made some kind of horrible mistake, but no going back now. She was in the thick of it. Walking around with a bona fide Railroad agent would be the best way to get information on the Institute, and, by proxy, on Sean.

And all she had to do was avoid throttling him.


	4. Chapter Three

"Proust," Deacon declared, "is a very underrated poet." He tilted his half-empty bottle, watching the remaining amber liquid slosh around within the glass.

The gentle hum of Bunker Hill waved around them as they hunched over the bar, sitting with their backs to the trading hub. They'd arrived around noon, after picking up a holotape - "dead drop," Deacon had called it - that told them their next mission. Deacon had seemed excited, or at least somewhat energized. This was to be Morgan's first "synth run," whatever that meant. So here they were, biding their time, trying to look like boring scavvers and not people here for something important.

Deacon had changed clothes again, this time wearing the dull patchwork suit of a trader. Morgan was playing the part of his bodyguard. This meant she couldn't lead the team, couldn't look like the person in charge. But it let her look fierce and focus on security, while Deacon handled the talking. She couldn't complain.

"Do people even read anymore? I'm not sure a poet can be underrated if no one even knows what poetry _is_." Morgan rapped her fingers against the glass of her cola bottle as she scanned the area behind them, looking for signs of trouble. "I always preferred Pound, myself. And Whitman."

"Mm. Not bad." Deacon took a sip of his beer. "Shakespeare's a classic, though. You have to admit that."

"He made some good points. But he's not a literary god, whatever my high school English teacher might say."

"Not a fan of plays, boss?"

It's been two weeks. He calls her "boss" when they're in the Commonwealth. In HQ, he calls her "Fixer." He remembers the names, even if she doesn't. It occurred to her, at some point, that "Deacon" was a code name, not an actual name. But it sounds like a person's name. Makes you think you're friends, having a conversation, instead of two agents surrounded by secrecy.

Morgan's come to understand that there's a lot about Deacon designed to make you trust him, while offering very little trust in return.

"I like plays well enough. And Shakespeare has his merits. But he only sounds fancy 'cause that's the way everybody talked so many centuries ago."

"I always like Shakespeare because he wrote his plays for the people, you know? Made his work for the masses, not just high-and-mighty nobility. Love, loss, dick jokes. All that good stuff." Deacon rested one elbow on the counter, knocking back the last of his beer. "But, unless you wanted to sit here and debate ancient literature..."

Morgan took another sip of her soda. "It's time to go."

Deacon didn't nod, but got up from his barstool, looking like the man in charge. Morgan tossed some caps on the counter for her drink, and stood up, following Deacon into the heart of Bunker Hill. Caravan workers leaned against the pale stone on the outside of the building, comparing guns and complaining about their pay. Inside, various traders haggled over goods, whittling down prices to friendlier numbers. The resident Bunker Hill traders, the ones who stayed year-round instead of traveling with the caravans, tried to catch Deacon's attention as they went by. Deacon smiled and complimented their wares before walking on.

 _Smooth bastard._

They stopped at a booth at the back corner of the building, a small table with a handful of uninteresting objects atop it. Food, ammo, nothing new or eye-catching like the other vendors. "Sir," Deacon greeted, with another smile.

The old man behind the table watched them with dark, steady eyes. "Welcome, my friend," he said in return. "Might I ask - do you have a geiger counter?"

Deacon pretended to stare into a particularly dull mutfruit. Morgan blinked, remembering to speak. "Uh. Yes. I mean - mine's in the shop."

Stockton's upper lip twitched. "I see."

Morgan scowled. Deacon, as if sensing the animosity, interrupted with a toothy grin. "She's a new, mutual friend," he said, holding out a handful of caps in exchange for a broken compass.

Stockton took the caps, and Deacon pocketed the compass. "I was hoping for someone more… armed," the old man said.

"I'm plenty armed, sir," Morgan snapped, almost taking it as a personal offense. "But I'd rather not have to prove it."

Stockton arched a brow, but didn't argue. "I have a package," he stated, "that's been in my possession for far too long. I'm supposed to deliver the package to somewhere nearby. But raiders have complicated matters. Perhaps you could assist me."

Morgan's fingers twitched for the warm comfort of her gun. "I'm all ears."

Morgan made a note on her map of the drop site, and the pair were on their way. Her Pip-Boy's coordinates led them to a long abandoned church, riddled with bullet holes. Morgan climbed onto the roof of a building opposite the church and set up her rifle, peering down the sights. Through one of the church's broken windows, she caught sight of a handful of raiders, clustered around a smoking fire pit. She almost snorted. _These_ pathetic druggies? _These_ were scaring Stockton? What a pissbaby.

By the time Deacon caught up with her on the roof, she'd popped the raider's heads and splattered bits of brain across the pews. Back to the ground they went, and scurried across the street and into the church. Morgan wrinkled her nose, looking across the long hall and up into the rafters.

"Not a fan of churches?" Deacon prodded. Behind her, he poked the still-smoking meat roasting over the raiders' fire.

"Not really, no," Morgan admitted. "My mother was born Catholic, but had to go Protestant after marrying my dad. I remember going to church a few times when I was little, but it never stuck. Never much cared for churches. Too much time spent trying to convince you what to think."

"Some people like that," Deacon pointed out, as he sat down in one of the bloodless pews. "It's easier to relax and be happy if you're using someone else's morals."

"Absolves you of the blame," Morgan said, nodding solemnly. Then, she shook her head and changed the topic. "What're you doing?"

Deacon opened the box he'd summoned from his pocket and pulled out a deck of cards. "Giving myself something to do. Stockton's not going to show up for another few hours. We've got lots of time to waste."

Morgan sighed. "Let me drag out the bodies. Then deal me in. I guess."

The raider corpses were dragged outside and stowed in some bushes a good distance away from the church, making sure any Super Mutants out and about would be drawn away towards the smell of blood and away from the drop site. Morgan insisted on cleaning most of the blood from the pews, and eating the meat they'd left behind. "No sense in wasting a meal," she grumbled.

"I'm a vegetarian," Deacon replied, thumbing through his cards.

"More like a _dickitarian_."

"Flawless comeback, boss."

It was a lie, but Morgan let it be. She did that with most of his lies. Deacon's falsehoods tended to be light and innocuous, made to keep you on your toes, keep you skeptical. Or, that was Morgan's theory. She saw the way he almost smiled sometimes, when she argued with him. The way he always glanced at her when he said something particularly unbelievable, looking to see if she'd buy into the lie. The way his eyes drilled into the back of her head when a moral choice was in front of them. These past two weeks had been a series of tests. Morgan hoped she was passing.

By nightfall, Deacon had taken off his sunglasses, instead hiding his mouth behind a bandanna and his eyes beneath a wide-brimmed cap. His blue eyes glittered in the moonlight coming in through the window. "Damn," he cursed, slapping his hand on the floor as he lost another round of blackjack. "New round?"

Morgan opened her mouth, then paused, brow furrowing as she went still. "Hush." She rose, picking up her gun and creeping to a window. Then, after a moment: "Stockton. And one other."

"Probably the package," Deacon whispered back. "We should be good."

Morgan stepped back from the door, keeping her gun in hand and listening to the approaching footsteps. As the church doors opened, her fingers tensed, resting just below the curl of the trigger. Stockton raised his hands, giving both agents a placating nod, while the stranger beside him flinched.

"It's alright, it's us." Stockton lowered his hands, then cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. "Everything looks clear. This is H2-22," he explained, gesturing to the young man beside him. "H2, here's the person I talked to you about."

Morgan glanced at the cowering stranger. "Who's he?" she asked bluntly.

"The package." Stockton eyed her for a moment. "Well, I suppose I can forgive the alpha for sending such a green agent. I'm sure this isn't as troublesome as some of our other endeavors." Stockton pressed his hand to the man's back, nudging him forward. "H2-22 is a synth. We're transporting him to a safehouse, where he will then begin relocation."

This time, Morgan's eyes rested on him a while longer. As far as she knew, she'd never met a sentient synth other than Nick Valentine. Certainly never a Gen 3 synth like this. H2-22 hunched his shoulders, looking down at the floor with his chin to his chest, dirty fingernails picking at his sleeve in a nervous gesture. Half-grown stubble protruded from his cheeks, looking like he'd tried to shave but failed. His hair was matted and greasy, and his clothes looked as though they had belonged to someone else. The sleeves hung down past his wrists, slacks baggy on his thin, nervous frame.

He was just a boy. A lonely, frightened creature, handed off from person to person with a number for a name and no title but "package." A sudden, intangible urge pulled at her heart, pushing her to reach forward and hug him, comfort him, _something_. The feeling caught her off-guard, as she hadn't felt that way since before the bombs went off. Since before she'd lost Sean.

She ignored it, keeping her face impassive with eyes still on the synth. "Where are we taking him?" she asked, keeping her voice steady. She could feel Deacon's eyes on her again.

"Another agent will be here shortly," Stockton said, lighting the lantern he'd brought with him and setting it in the window. "He will take you where you need to go." Then, to H2: "Remember what I told you."

And then he left. Morgan avoided the incoming awkward silence by gesturing to the nearest pew. "Sit down." The synth sat, still keeping his eyes down and shoulders tense. Moments later, a new figure jogged down the road. Without thinking, Morgan stepped to stand between the door and H2, weapon up.

The door creaked and an unfamiliar face peeked inside. " _Whoa_ ," he said, eyes trained on the barrel of Morgan's gun. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy. Don't shoot. I'm just lookin' for a geiger counter."

"Mine's in the shop," Morgan said, and lowered her gun. "You our contact?"

"Sure am." The man stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He had dark skin, almost as dark as the night outside, with kind eyes and a friendly face. "Name's High Rise. Haven't seen you running this beat before."

"Fixer," Morgan introduced. She gestured to Deacon, sprawled languidly over one of the pews. "I'm traveling with Deacon. He's showing me the ropes."

High Rise seemed to brighten, and he looked to Deacon with a teasing smile. "D, my man. Why the long face? Haven't you gotten a new one by now? Been a few months. I'm surprised."

"What can I say," Deacon drawled. "I think I'm attached to this mug. Might keep it a little longer, who knows."

"You're a class act, Deeks." He glanced around Morgan's side to look at H2. "That the package?"

Morgan nodded. "How far from here to the safehouse?"

"Not very. Lotta baddies between here and then, so I'll need you guys to cover my ass. I'm a runner, not a heavy. Sound good?"

"Sounds good." Morgan pressed her lips together, and turned aside, looking down at the synth. "You ready?"

H2 blinked, unprepared for the question. "U-Uh… sure. Yes." He had a high, quavering voice, tinted with nervousness like the rest of him.

Morgan nodded, and the group went out. Their shoes scraped over concrete and gravel as they jogged through dark streets, the moon lighting their way as they slipped through overgrown alleyways. Deacon held the rear, and High Rise led the way, with Morgan and H2 side by side in the middle. High Rise dashed from building to building, playing scout and gesturing for them to off any bad guys blocking the path. Deacon checked their back to make sure they weren't being followed, and covered Morgan as she led the attack.

H2 often had his hands over his ears, wincing with every gunshot. He almost crumpled to his knees a few times, trying to curl up in a ball on the ground, but Morgan kept a firm grip on the back of his shirt. She kept ahold of him most of the way, guiding him through rustling bushes and around exposed needles littering alley floors. She kept him quiet when he got stuck in scratching weeds, picking burrs from his coat and pulling him along. Deacon was still watching her.

High Rise held up a hand, making them stop. He mouthed a hushing noise, his eyes wide. They all stopped and listened, and soon they heard the low, heavy breathing and dragging footsteps of super mutants. H2's throat tightened as he stifled a whimper. Slowly, quietly, they crept behind a large truck in a yard behind a factory, all pushed together as the mutants walked by. The mutants crept closer, sniffing and murmuring about the smell of humans.

H2 squeezed his eyes tight, curling himself into a very small ball and staying silent. Morgan kept her hand on the back of his neck, the rough warmth of her glove pressing into his skin. One hand on him, the other on her gun. The super mutant sniffed deeply on the other side of the truck, and Morgan felt him shiver against her fingertips.

But gunfire erupted around the corner, and the mutants ran after it, mumbling and drooling and shouting for battle. High Rise stood, and guided them on.

At last they stopped, with a river to their left and a battered skyscraper to their right. High Rise sighed in relief. "And we're here. Ticonderoga safehouse." He chuckled. "All in a night's work for you agent types, huh?"

"I guess so." As she stopped to check in with High Rise, Deacon approached H2 and helped him into the building elevator. He had his arm slung over the synth's shoulders, and spoke easily, coaxing a weak smile from the young man's face. A brief pang of envy stung Morgan's heart as she watched them. A part of her wanted to help so badly, but she just didn't have the same soothing charm Deacon did. No matter how hard she tried, she'd always be ugly, scarred, and terrifying. Such was her lot in life.

High Rise didn't seem to notice her sudden melancholy, and walked with her to the elevator. Somehow the four of them crammed inside, and up they went. With a very faint _ding_ , the elevator doors open to a well-kept room, that looked like it had once been an office. Boxes of weaponry were stowed along the walls alongside dusty fake plants and cold cups of coffee. Morgan recognized other Railroad agents by the way they ignored the group's entrance, focused on their paperwork or terminals. But the other residents seemed different. Dressed in wasteland couture, they looked dazed and confused, staring out of windows or hunched over half-eaten plates of food.

Another agent ambushed H2 by the elevator, ushering him up some stairs with a monologue of welcomes and warnings. H2 met Morgan's eyes on the way up the stairs, but only for a second. Then he was gone, and Morgan was alone.

High Rise attempted to introduce everyone, but Deacon sidetracked him, waving him away with a smile and a compliment. The other agent fled, and Deacon turned to Morgan just as H2 disappeared up the stairs. "You alright?"

Morgan jumped. "Fine." She swallowed. "Fine," she repeated, sounding more believable. Then, as if she only just realized: "I need sleep."

"That would be a good idea," Deacon agreed sagely. Morgan felt his eyes probing her behind the sunglasses. She could sense it, when he fell silent for half a second and his lips pulled together in that curious, unconscious way. "Do you need anything?" he asked, softer.

Did she? Morgan took a moment to consider the question. "I don't think so," she said. She raised her eyes to his with a glare. "Do _you_?"

He smiled. "I love your skepticism. Nope. Not a thing. Go catch some shut-eye, Fix. We can recap later." He waved her goodbye, and jogged after High Rise.

Morgan shrugged, and found herself a dark corner, absently tugging the knots from her hair as she observed the room. People here, while still busy, looked more relaxed than those at HQ. People smiled at her when they met her eyes. Some of the agents spoke with other synths, laughing or conversing or doing work together. Despite the late hour, it felt like somebody's home.

Still. Here, there weren't nearly as many weapons or people in armor as in HQ, and this place wasn't nearly as secure. All they had was a rickety elevator and a prayer protecting them from the outside world. Morgan wondered how High Rise kept in such good spirits.

She blinked, and suddenly one of the synths was waking her up, telling her it was breakfast. Warm, hearty smells emanated from the breakroom-turned-kitchen. Sunlight filtered in through the wide skyscraper windows, showing a blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. You couldn't even hear the shooting from up here.

As the rest of the group went in for breakfast, Morgan took her chance and went up the stairs H2 had ascended the previous night. That led into a hallway lined with offices-turned-bedrooms, each room revealing two small cots and a dresser. None of them had any personal items. Near the end of the hall, Morgan found H2, sitting on the edge of his bed, still wearing the previous day's clothes. She rapped her knuckles on the doorframe, and watched him jump. "I didn't mean to startle you," she said, sounding apologetic.

"N-No," the synth replied. "It's… It's fine."

Morgan rested her head against the side of the doorframe. "How are you holding up?"

H2 curled his fingers into the edge of his bed. "O-Okay, I think. They… they told me a lot of things," he said, sounding quavery again. "M-Mostly that I shouldn't talk much. Until they get me relocated."

"Do you know when that'll happen?"  
"No." He flinched. "I'm s-sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry." Morgan pressed her lips together. "Can I come in?"

"I-If you want."

Morgan stepped into the room, boots scraping lightly against the metal floor. "Where do you think you're going to go?"

H2 pressed his lips together, searching for an answer. "I don't know," he said at last, looking up at her with shining eyes. "I guess I didn't think about it."

"When you... escaped?"

"Yeah."

Morgan swallowed, and carefully came over to the bed, sitting beside him with a creak. She folded her hands in her lap. "Why'd you escape?" she asked.

"W-Why?"

"Mhm."

"I-I guess…" His brow furrowed, making him glare at the floor as he thought. "... I guess because I was tired of being scared." He breathed something that might have been a laugh. "B-But now I'm not sure."

Morgan nodded. "It's scary, when other people are in control of what happens to you." In response to H2's meek nod, she continued. "I've heard stories about what happens in the Institute. It doesn't seem like a fun time. Like they treat you as less than human. Is that right?" He nodded again. "I haven't been in the Railroad very long, but I don't think we're trying to scare you. There's just a lot of people we have to help, and so we have to move you real fast."

"... I miss Stockton," H2 blurted, bringing his knees up to his chest and hugging them. Then, softer: "He was nice to me."

" _I'm_ trying to be nice to you," Morgan pointed out. That made him look at her. A small, wry smile curved her lips. "I'm just not very good at being friendly," she admitted. She reached up a hand and traced the scars on her face. "I know I don't look friendly."

H2 looked away, embarrassed at being caught for judging appearances. He swallowed, and met her eyes again. "H-How… How do _you_ not get scared?"

"What do you mean?"

"Last night. When we were… out, there. You weren't scared at all."

Morgan raised her eyebrows and exhaled, puffing out her cheeks as she sighed. "Practice, I guess. I used to be as scared as you, when I was a lot younger. Scared of people not liking me, scared of getting hurt, scared of being alone. But then I figured out how to shoot a gun, protect myself, and a lot of that fear went away. Of course," she said, chuckling bitterly, "it got _replaced_ by other kinds of fear, but I don't think you're in the same situation I was."

"But I don't know how to shoot," H2 admitted quietly. "I don't know what I'd do."

Morgan pressed her lips together. "It's not hard," she offered. "Here." Reaching into her boot, she pulled out the simple ten-millimeter pistol she'd carried out of the vault. She'd kept it with her for reasons she didn't think H2 needed to know. "You just aim down the sights, keep your elbow bent and relaxed, and shoot. Use two hands to keep it steady."

H2 took it, almost dropping it at the surprising heaviness. "W-What if I can't do it?"

"You don't have to kill them. Guns are good at that, but if you just need to get away, shooting someone in the leg sometimes works. You can shoot someone in the chest to do a lot of damage, without having to stick around and feel guilty." She reached over, gently laying her hand over his, adjusting the weapon so he held it safely. "The world's a lot safer when you know you're not alone, too. When I was scared, I was alone for a long time. You've got the whole Railroad trying to keep you safe." She pressed her lips together. "I'm trying to keep you safe, too."

At that, H2 curled his fingers around the weapon, feeling the grip fit comfortably in his hand. Still hunching his shoulders, he met Morgan's eyes, daring to look hopeful. "Can you show me?"

Morgan smiled. "Sure."

* * *

When they returned to HQ, the novelty of it had worn off. Des met her eyes as she came in, but looked away just as quickly. _First synth run_ , Deacon had said. Perhaps that meant something.

Another woman - the one with white hair, that she saw two weeks ago - came up to Desdemona. Murmured in her ear. Her fingers traced down the other woman's lower back. Brief, intimate, enough to be missed if you blinked. Morgan looked away and focused on cutting wasteland vegetables into edible pieces.

The white-haired woman approached her just as she sat down to eat, the bowl of chunky vegetable soup warm in her hands. "So," white-hair said. "You're the new heavy." The woman crossed her arms, looking fierce. She was tall. Slim-build. Lean muscle - made for efficiency, not show. She was the one who handled miniguns. Probably buff as hell under all that armor. Morgan wasn't built for fist fights. Knife fights, maybe. She wondered if white-hair had a knife on her.

"I guess." Morgan reluctantly set aside her bowl. "You want something?"

The other woman pressed on. "Checked out the Switchboard for myself. Saw the work you did. Wasn't bad - for a human, that is."

Morgan couldn't resist raising a brow. "I assume you're a synth, then."

"In the artificial flesh." She smirked. "I heard you did your first Ticon run today. Met your first synth." Half a statement, half a question.

Morgan shrugged. "I did. Your point?"

"Oh, that just usually has an effect on people. You know. Makes them pick a side. Decide what they're here for." God, this woman was unsubtle. Morgan didn't think _she_ was particularly tactful, but white-hair couldn't be any more obvious if she drew it on her goddamn forehead.

Morgan resisted the urge to snap back, to make a fight out of it, claw her way out of the corner white-hair was rapidly forcing her into. "Well, I came here for answers. Guess I got 'em."

" _And_?"

" _And_ ," Morgan amended. She kept her expression plain. "I guess you're right. Synths are worth helping." She took a spoonful of soup.

"That's it?" White-hair looked dubious. "Nothing else?"

"What else is there?" Morgan allowed some of the truth to seep through, daring to taint her response with emotion. "Kid was scared. Kid seemed like a kid. Didn't look like he could hurt a fly. I don't see why I can't spend some time keeping people like him safe." She stabbed the bowl, spearing a hunk of soft carrot on the end of her spoon. Morgan looked back up at the synth, her eyes hard and challenging. "You got a problem with that?"

White-hair's face split in a smile. "Nah. I guess we're cool." She gave Morgan's shoulder a friendly push, ignoring - or not noticing - the other woman's flinch. "That's good enough. Anybody who sides with my kind is worth keeping around, you know?" She cleared her throat. "Name's Glory."

"Uh, Fixer. I think. That's supposed to be my name now."

"You'll get used to it." Glory shrugged. "It's a new beginning, you know? Feels a little weird at the start, but it helps you keep an open mind. Keeps you on your toes." She pushed Morgan's shoulder again. "See you 'round, rookie."

Morgan watched the synth walk away. Saw Desdemona's eyes trail after her. Deacon was busy causing trouble in another corner of the room, grinning with his hands laced behind his head and two other agents bickering in front of him. Somehow, HQ felt more homey than she remembered. She started recognizing some of the faces, growing comfortable with the brick walls and mismatching furniture.

Even Deacon had settled in her mind. The echo of his footsteps following hers no longer made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She liked being able to turn and have him just behind her, always. It was nice because she didn't owe him anything - they just had a comfortable partnership.

She didn't come to the wasteland looking for a cause, let alone a community. But - she couldn't save Nate. Couldn't save Sean. Couldn't even save herself, half the time.

Maybe she could save somebody else.


	5. Chapter Four

"Ms. Morgan?" Joe Savoldi knocked twice, voice muffled against the door. "Radio's askin' for you."

Morgan and Deacon shared a look. Slowly, Morgan rose from her mattress, fingers curled around her pistol. Deacon closed the magazine he'd been flipped through, the end of his cigarette glowing red in the darkness. Morgan went to the door first, undoing the lock and peering out, the barrel of her pistol poking through the crack in the door. "Who is it?"

Joe raised his hands in easy surrender, but didn't flinch. Paranoid bunkhouse guests were not uncommon. "Nobody here. Bill was doin' his rounds when a signal came through on the radio. Told me I better come get you."

Another look passed between the agents. Then, Morgan opened the door all the way, pistol lowered but not sheathed. "I'm coming." Then, to Deacon: "Grab my shit."

They descended the stairs and followed Savoldi into the main hall of Bunker Hill, to the desk in the corner with a radio atop it. Savoldi got them seated beside the crackling, static-filled speakers, then tapped the brim of his cap and left them alone. The world was dark around them, quiet save for the snapping of fire barrels and the muted snuffling of sleeping brahmin. Looking up, a few fireflies gleamed and the stars twinkled, bright against the darkness and too numerous to count. "It's a nice night," Deacon remarked, looping Morgan's pack over his shoulder.

"Might be about to get a lot worse," Morgan rumbled, and turned up the radio volume. A female voice spoke clearly.

"This is Valentine's Detective Agency. Please respond. We are in search of a woman named Morgan. Early thirties, tall, scarred face. If she's listening, or if you know her whereabouts, please respond. Repeat. We are looking for a female mercenary named Morgan. Please respond. This is urgent." The radio hummed quiet for a few seconds, then repeated the message.

Morgan stared at the machine, then shook her head clear and turned down the volume. let it run a few seconds before shaking her head clear and turning down the volume. "Ellie," was all she said.

Deacon nodded. "Do you know why they're looking for you?" He sounded kind, but there was something else, too. Worry? Concern? Who for? Morgan could never quite figure out his motivations. All his stories and questions had _reasons_ , sure, but she never knew what those were.

"Yeah." She scratched at her temple, still staring at the radio. Deacon's eyes on the back of her neck prompted her to continue. "Someone was taken from me," she admitted at last. "By the Institute. That's why I left the Vault. That, and because everyone else had died. I went to Nick first, but he hadn't given me much hope. So I went to the Railroad."

His sunglasses stared at her. "I'm sorry." His head shifted, and Morgan could feel his eyes move away.

"Yeah." Morgan looked up, eyes landing somewhere around his collar. "You don't have to come with me," she mumbled. "This isn't your problem. I'll come back to HQ when it's settled."

"Sure, sure, I get it." He toyed with his hands, picking at his fingertips and running his short nails over his skin. An absent, unsure gesture, and one of the few he didn't always remember to hide. "You don't want me with you." Half a statement, half a question.

Morgan's breath hitched, but her shoulders slumped, the reply evading her. She breathed a quiet sigh. "I don't want to get you wrapped up in something that isn't your business. It's one thing to do some jobs as 'fellow agents.' But I know you're not big on the whole emotional intimacy thing. And being honest, neither am I. I'm not telling you to fuck off. But I figured you deserve an out."

Deacon nodded, still fiddling with his fingers. His cheeks sagged, pulling his lips into a stern expression. He showed his age when he was unhappy. Morgan never claimed to be able to read people, but she could see his agitation. She was forcing him to speak his mind, to make a firm decision. Deacon hated giving up his secrets.

"Or," she said, slowly. "I guess, you could stay here with me." She forced a shrug, turning her voice gruff and looking away, letting Deacon feel like he had the upper hand. "It's no skin off my nose. Valentine and I aren't exactly the best of friends, and I can always use another gun. Don't much care if you come with me or not."

In the corner of her eye, Morgan saw Deacon visibly relax, his hands still. His stern look faded, replaced by his usual easy smile. "You sure know how to make someone feel welcome, Fix. Well," he said, stretching languidly. "Since I've got nothing better to do, I'm willing to tag along. That, or head back to HQ and have Des drown me in reports and paperwork."

"Don't shoot me in the back, I won't shoot yours," she replied, and turned back to the radio to hide a small smile. "Now, show me how to call Nick back."

The detective told her to meet him on the West Stands in Diamond City. He'd know when she arrived. Now, mid-morning of the following day, Morgan felt anxiety prickle at the base of her skull, burning in the tips of her fingers and along her spine. What awaited her? What had Nick found? What was she going to do?

Was she really ready for this?

She noticed how Deacon took care to keep conversation light. He complimented the weather, offered to play cards, cleaned his gun and told her puns. Making sure to avoid serious topics. As time went on, Morgan found herself grudgingly growing attached to the bastard. He had a habit of always knowing what to say. And while that could certainly be used for malicious purposes, sometimes she found it comforting.

They stepped into Diamond City when the market was in full flux, traders coming and going and merchants hocking their wares. The people here were cleaner than in Bunker Hill - cleaner faces, cleaner mouths. No one bitched about caps or long hours. Security stood at every corner, prepared to take down troublemakers or pickpockets. To some, it might feel comforting. To others, oppressive.

Around the corner and up the stairs deposited them at the West Stands, where Nick Valentine waited, with a German Shepherd panting at the end of its leash. "Good. You're here."

Morgan started at the sight of the animal, narrowing her eyes at its open, drooling jaw. "Why the dog?" she asked suspiciously.

"Tracking," Nick replied. "He's helped me out on a case or two, and I thought we'd need him. Borrowed him from a nice old woman up north." He gave the canine an affectionate smile before casting Deacon a stern look. "Who's your friend?"

"Nicky, buddy," Deacon drawled. "You don't recognize me? Sure, the face and clothes are different, but I thought a bona fide detective would remember an old friend."

"'Friend' is putting it generously, Deacon," the synth replied, chuckling. "You manage to turn Morgan over to your side?"

"To be fair, she came to us first. I just dazzled her with my blinding smile and endearing sense of humor." Deacon grinned.

"I'm sure that's exactly how it went." The detective scratched at his fake skin with his clawed hand. "So, you're together on this?" He cast Morgan a pointed look. "There anything I shouldn't say?"

The woman hesitated. "I don't want to talk about who we're after," she said.

Valentine considered this, glancing between them before nodding. "I was looking for my files when I came across something you might be interested in. A man matching the description you gave when you first came to see me. Kellogg. Deacon might recognize the name."

"Bad man," Deacon said solemnly, shaking his head. "He messes up a lot of our work. Worse than a Courser. No one knows who he works for _officially_ , but we in the Railroad have a theory he's some kind of Institute asset."

"I wouldn't be surprised." Nick jerked a thumb to the building behind him. "He passed through here a while back. Had a boy with him, about ten years old. They stayed in this house, but disappeared a while ago. If there's any chance of figuring out where they've gone or where they came from, it'll be in here. And if we do find something good, we can use Dogmeat to narrow down where to look."

 _Ten years old._ Morgan's heart skipped a beat.

She didn't remember much about the Vault, or the pod. It bled together in a blur of fear and pain, like some kind of distorted dream. But it hadn't been very long, she knew that. Just a few minutes. Twenty at the most before she'd escaped the pod. If two centuries could pass in the blink of an eye, maybe ten years could pass in the time it took for her to wake up after Kellogg to put her back under.

She shook her head clear. Going down memory lane and drowning in self-pity would help no one. Least of all Sean. When her vision cleared, Nick was trying his hand at the lock on the front door of the house. Deacon gave her a strange look. She ignored it, and busied her hands by fiddling with her helmet and drumming her fingers on her gun. "Any luck?" she asked, glancing around for guards.

Nick grumbled something and stepped back from the door. "Gonna need a key to get through," he admitted. "Unless one of you think you can pick it yourself."

Deacon shrugged. "I know my way around a bobby pin, but there's only so much I can do. My skills lie in getting someone else to give me the key, not picking the lock myself."

"Does it have hinges?" Morgan asked.

"Uh. Looks like. Why?" Valentine raised an eyebrow.

"'Cause. Everybody always makes picking locks harder than it needs to be." She pulled a set of tools from her pack and moved to the door as her companions watched. "Granted, this doesn't work on mechanical or electrical doors, but I find it's still pretty useful. Not fast, though."

She tapped her hammer on the first hinge, testing its strength. Like most Commonwealth construction, it was old and rusted. She fitted the screwdriver into the hinge, loosening it before prying it up with the claw of the hammer. Gripping the tongs around the protruding metal, she gave it a sharp yank, pulling it from the wall and the door with a heavy clank.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Nick asked, watching as she repeated the process with the two other hinges.

"Didn't," she grunted, pulling on the last hinge. "Came up with it when I needed to open a door and had some tools on me. Call it critical thinking." A small pile of screws and metal bits had formed beside the door. Morgan stood and pulled on the doorknob, and it lurched forward. She caught it with a wince, and her companions rushed to help, all lowering it to the ground with a quiet thump. "Stay, boy," Morgan said, pointing a finger at Dogmeat. The dog panted happily and sat down on his hind legs. "I'll take that as a yes."

Morgan headed inside and switched on her Pip-Boy light, hesitate to switch on the electrics and attract anyone's attention. The house itself appeared long abandoned, everything covered in a thin layer of dust. It had no personal items, no traces of human touch remaining. It reminded her of a hotel room. "You sure there's gonna be something here, Nick?" she murmured.

"Never sure of anything, in this business," Valentine replied, golden eyes shining. "Especially not with a guy like Kellogg. But nobody remembers everything. And the smallest clue could be useful to us."

Morgan sighed. "Let's be careful, then."

They sifted through the contents of the house, lifting furniture and up-ending wastebaskets. Even checking dressers for false drawers. Deacon kept his mouth shut for the most part, save for some smart remarks on Kellogg's buying habits. "Four flanks of Brahmin steaks from Polly?" he questioned, looking over a receipt found under one of the chairs. "Wow. How big is this guy? What, does he drink raw eggs for breakfast and protein shakes after dinner?"

"I mean, in between kidnappings, I guess he's fond of a boys night in," Morgan murmured.

"Here," Valentine interrupted. He pressed something beneath the surface of a desk, and a wall near the front door split in two, mechanical doors parting to reveal a brightly lit room. "Well, well. What're you hiding, Kellogg?" Morgan resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The trio entered the room, and found a leather chair plus some cabinets and shelves, still stacked with a few edible goods. "Beer and cigars," Valentine murmured, nodding at the table beside the leather chair. "Interesting brands. This stuff is hard to come by."

Deacon pocketed a few cartons of Snack Cakes while no one was looking. "Gwinnett," he said, nodding at the beer bottles approvingly. "This guy had good taste. Well, besides the murdering."

"Besides the murdering." Morgan picked up one of the cigarettes, rolling it between her fingers. "What does this do for us, Valentine?"

"I say we could lend them to our furry friend outside, see what he tells us," the synth replied, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat.

"Sounds good. I'll put the door back together."

And there they were, on the Stands, the door back in its place and the Diamond City residents milling about like ants far below them. The sun was warm on her face, heating her armor as it glinted in the light. Nick and Deacon stood behind her, waiting. Expectant.

It occurred to her, cigars in her hand and dog at her feet, that this was it. Finding Sean. Everything she'd done up until now, everyone she'd fought, every choice she made. It all led up to this moment. Cold fear clutched at her heart and thrummed in her chest, tension rising in her shoulders and pinching her nerves.

"Fixer?"

Deacon's voice grabbed her. She flinched, twitching for a moment before shaking her head. "I'm good. Just waiting for you to be ready." She realized how close she was to crushing the cigars in her fist. She forced herself to relax her grip, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to look casual.

"Do you want me to leave?" Morgan turned around to face the speaking synth. "This might be your last step to finding … who you're looking for. If you want to do this alone, I won't blame you."

She blinked. "Yes. Yeah. I'd appreciate that, Nick. Thank you."

The detective gave her a small, understanding smile, and tipped his hat to them as he walked past Dogmeat and into the heart of the city. Morgan watched his beige-and-white form bob through the alleys until he vanished back into his office. She took a breath, and with muscles coiled tight as springs, forced her arm out, waving the cigars in front of Dogmeat's nose.

She jerked when the animal let out a bark, rubbing his wet nose against her hand and sniffing before running in the opposite direction. Glancing at Deacon, they shared a nod before sprinting after the dog.

Dogmeat guided them out of the city, barrelling past unwary bystanders and almost knocking over a cart or two. At least he had the decency to stop at the city gate and wait for them. Then, when they got within a few feet, he barked, and kept running.

He paused only to sniff the air or the ground before darting off again, giving both agents a sudden, exhausting workout. They raced down long and winding roads, through concrete valleys that were once roadway tunnels, across rusted railroad tracks. Every time the dog slowed down, Morgan's throat would run dry, and fear would thrum in her veins. And every time, instead of Kellogg, it would be a cold cigar or blood-brown bandages. Every so often, a cluster of wild, irradiated stags or dogs would block their journey, forcing them to slow down. Then Dogmeat would get distracted, and they'd have to give him the scent all over again.

Morgan wasn't sure whether to be frustrated at the delay, or grateful for something to take her nervous energy out on. She detested the waste of ammo, but at least when she fired her gun, she couldn't feel herself shaking. Her fingers trembled every time she held out the cigars to the dog.

Then, at last, they stopped.

Dogmeat halted at the front of a barricaded building, snuffling around the door and whining softly, getting on his hind legs and pawing at the boards. Morgan slowly, slowly treaded up the stairs to stand beside him, legs shaking. She could feel the pressure building, a mix of damned anticipation and being trapped in her own head, dizzy and nauseous at once. Breathlessly, she whispered.

"We're here."


	6. Chapter Five

It was too much.

She could feel it, like a knot growing tighter and tighter in the middle of her chest, her veins burning like strings pulled taut. She fell back against the wall, fingers twitching and curling into fists as her chin feel to her chest. Shivers went down her spine, and her vision went black around the edges. Panic thrummed in her flood, too strong to stop. Her heart pounded painfully, and the corners of her eyes teared up. The sounds of the outdoors faded away, replaced by a faint buzzing that filled her ears.

Her legs threatened to give out, and sweat trickled down her skin. She bit down into her lower lip, silencing the cries that choked her. She sucked in deep breaths of air, trying to steady herself, trying to outlast it. She hated the weak, whimpering exhales that escaped her. Hated the way her body betrayed her like this.

As if from a great distance, she heard Deacon stop at the base of the steps. She flinched, turning away to hide her face as she fumbled for her back. She shoved a trembling hand through its contents, grasping desperately, and curled her fingers around smooth plastic. She pressed the inhaler to her lips and inhaled, feeling that sweet-tasting chemical warmth fill her lungs. As she leaned back and exhaled, the heat flowed down into her lungs and heart, and flowed, tingling, from her chest to her fingertips. Everything faded away in a haze of dreamy nirvana.

When her eyes focused, she saw Deacon standing off to the side, pointedly avoiding her gaze. "Done?" he asked, voice tinged with veiled distaste.

She blinked, staring at him for a few seconds as her thoughts cleared. Then, hot, vengeful anger sparked in her blood. How _dare_ he judge her? After all she'd been through? She needed this, needed it to feel normal, needed it so she didn't have a nervous breakdown and do something she might regret. She already had plenty of things she regretted.

Were it not for the pleasant haze left behind by the drug, she might've kicked his ass right then and there. Instead, she threw the inhaler aside, the plastic hitting and skidding across the concrete with an unpleasant scraping sound. "Yeah," she said, spitting the words. "I'm done."

Deacon didn't lift his head to meet her eyes. Instead, he followed along behind her, his footsteps a muted echo to her sharp, angry march. The front door of the building was boarded up, but a search around the side and in a nearby parking deck revealed a door, with a lit fluorescent on the wall beside it. Meaning, if power was here, then _someone_ was here, too.

Morgan busied herself with bludgeoning some of the ghouls hiding in the parking deck, and Deacon told Dogmeat to stay beside the door and wait for them. Deacon pretended not to notice the way Morgan _didn't_ notice the irradiated blood splattered across her face and chest. Morgan bit her tongue when she saw the way Deacon gently petted the dog. A single act of kindness towards an animal didn't undo his bias against her. It didn't undo his judgement.

They went through the doorway. The place was broken down but well-lit, light gleaming from the dusty lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. But the decor wasn't what Morgan cared about. Gen 1 and 2 synths crowded the hallways and lurked around corners, waiting for her with baleful, golden eyes. One by one, they came tumbling down, wire muscles laced through steel skeletons clattering to the floor. Flecks of oil splattered against the wall and floor, mixing with the blood on her clothes.

Morgan tried to stay calm. Dug her nails into the heel of her palm, mentally practiced her grounding exercises. But the world around her seemed too loud, too angry, her vision swimming around the edges and making it look like the walls were squeezing her between them. But she didn't dare expend another inhaler. Her supply was running low, and besides - she wasn't an addict. She wasn't.

"If it isn't my old friend, the frozen TV dinner. Last time we met, you were cozying up to the peas and apple cobbler."

Morgan stopped. She could have sworn her heart did, too. She lifted her head to stare at the pair of speakers protruding from the ceiling corner, now mockingly quiet. Months had passed since she first left the Vault, but Morgan could remember that gravelly voice as clear as day. Chills trickled down her spine, making all her hair stand on end, making her shoulders spasm from shivers.

 _Kellogg._

"Fixer?"

Morgan shook her head, shaking off Deacon's prodding. She didn't have time for weakness. This was it. She'd wars and apocalypses and childbirth and tragedy. She could face her husband's killer.

But again, her body betrayed her. Her heart seemed to yearn for the exit, pulling her back as her feet trudged forward. She inched along, feeling dizzy and light-headed, her hands cold and her chest tight. Her grip wavered and she lost the ability to shoot straight, brutalizing the walls and floors instead of the synths that greeted them around every corner. Deacon took point, protecting her, killing for her, and she didn't know whether she should hate him or not.

Kellogg's voice taunted her from speakers hidden in the walls.

"Sorry your house has been a wreck for two hundred years. But I don't need a roommate. Leave."

"Hmph. Never expected you to come knocking on my door. Gave you 50/50 odds of making it to Diamond City. After that? Figured the Commonwealth would chew you up like jerky."

"You've got guts and determination, and that's admirable. But you are in over your head in ways you can't possibly comprehend."

"It's not too late. Stop. Turn around and leave. You have that option. Not a lot of people can say that."

Kellogg followed her through the labyrinth of hallways and tunnels and turrets, until at last she stopped, staring into a menacing, mechanical door that had no knob. Morgan had just stepped forward to break it down when it clicked, and swung open. This time, Kellogg sounded almost cautious. "Okay, you made it. I'm just up ahead. My synths are standing down. Let's talk."

Morgan went inside.

Within was a dark room, but with the heavy hum of a generator, the lights flickered and burst into life, filling the room with pale fluorescence. The room itself looked like some kind of library, all dark woods and tall shelves and preserved Pre-War rugs across the floor. Around the shelves, synths emerged, their off-white bodies and skinless faces contrasting with the beauty of the room. All the synths wielded their special laser rifles, pointed at Morgan's chest.

Then, from the back of the room, Kellogg stepped forward. He held his hands over his head, looking calm. Unbothered, even. It looked like he hadn't aged a day since he'd taken her baby. Right down to his clothes, down to the gun in his hund. The oversized, modified pistol, cold steel and cold-hearted, bearing her husband's blood. Kellogg's eyes were dark, so dark she couldn't see his pupils within them.

"And there she is," Kellogg said, his voice dry like ash. "The most resilient woman in the Commonwealth." He lowered his gun to his side as he approached the center of the room, watching her as she matched his steps and padded across the rugs. The room suddenly seemed too quiet. "So here we are. Funny, huh?"

Morgan's throat was dry, and her skin was moist from the sheen of sweat across it. And yet. All her fear had drained away, leaving her pale and cold. Something about standing here, on what felt like the end of a very tall cliff, with a stone's throw between her and oblivion - she had no reason to be afraid anymore. This wasn't one of her nightmares. Nate was dead. Her baby, gone. All that remained was a man and a woman, standing at the end of the world, carrying very big guns.

Morgan lifted her chin. "You said your synths would be standing down," she said. Her voice cracked, but she did not falter. "They don't look very down to me."

"They didn't shoot you." He pointed out. A moment passed. "I imagine you're here for your son." When she didn't reply, he continued. "Your son. Sean. Great kid. A little older than you might have expected, but I guess you'd figured that out by now. I hate to break it to you, but he's not here."

"Where is he?"

Kellogg let out a cold, rumbling laugh. "You don't know? He's in a place nobody can reach. You won't be able to get there. _I_ couldn't get there, even if I wanted to. Sean's safe, at home. At the Institute. Though I appreciate the determination. It's how a parent should be. How I might've been, if things had turned out... differently."

"How do I find him?"

He laughed again. "Haven't you been paying attention? You don't find the Institute. The Institute finds you. You open a closet, it's just a closet. You can never find the monster that hides inside. Not until it jumps out at you." His mirth faded, and he tilted his head aside, those dark eyes meeting hers with a faint glint of amusement. "But I think we've been talking long enough," he said, with a new edge to his voice. "We both know how this has to end. Are you ready?"

Nate's face, glassy-eyed and splattered with blood, flashed in Morgan's mind. The ghost of Sean's cry echoed off the walls. But no anxiety prickled at the base of her skull, no fear or anger or aggression. She just felt very heavy, and very tired.

But it had to be done.

"I'm ready."

Kellogg smiled. He uttered a code, and the synth's eyes gleamed. Hot blue laser fire pelted Morgan's face and chest, making her throw her hand up and stagger backwards. Thus the fight began, as everyone fell into cover, trading gunfire around bookshelves and desktops. Morgan heard a dull hum as Kellogg switched on a Stealth Boy and went invisible, fading into just a faint blur that ducked around a bookshelf.

A forgotten third party startled Morgan as she fended off the advances of the synths. Deacon slid into cover opposite her, his rifle poking over the top of the desk and firing into the library. His mouth had set in a grim line, more serious than she'd ever seen him. Still dazed, Morgan shook her head and tried to focus on the bodies attacking her, as their laser heat stung her armor and made her metal chestpiece sweltering.

Deacon took point, fending off synths as he and Morgan crouched behind desks beside the library door, holding the line. Deacon was silent and deadly, while Morgan struggled to keep her weapon straight. It seemed like she'd suddenly forgotten how to fire her weapon, how to aim, how to see. Trembling fear coursed through her, making her hands stiff, making her fight to see clearly.

Visions of the past flashed before her eyes, blending with reality. She blinked, and she was sitting in the frozen trenches of Anchorage, sobbing at the mutilated corpse of the soldier beside, blown to pieces from a grenade's shrapnel. She shivered from the cold winds, then saw the blood-splattered rugs of the library. The synths spoke in Chinese, and Sean was crying. Eventually the only gunfire she could hear was her own, and she found herself sobbing in a ball on the floor.

"Morgan."

Deacon sounded breathless. Morgan trembled, letting herself hyperventilate on the floor for a few moments, synth corpses still bleeding oil beside her. Then, slowly, she rose, stumbling twice as she clutched her gun close to her chest. She scanned the room, feeling the thick trails of snot and tears drying on her face. The synths were dead. Kellogg's lifeless corpse lay on the floor away from her, rolled on his side so she couldn't see his face.

She turned, and there was Deacon, leaned back against the floor with one hand pressed to his stomach. Blood covered the floor around him, staining his clothes. His wig was disheveled, off-kilter on his head, and one of his sunglass lenses was cracked, revealing a bright blue eye behind it.

A jolt of cold fear stabbed through her heart. "Did I shoot you?" she whispered.

"No," he breathed, offering her a wry smile. "You shot everything else, though. Gold star." With his free hand, he held up a plastic inhaler, stained crimson. "Need this?"

Morgan stared at the inhaler for a moment before shaking her head. "In a minute," she mumbled. Solemn and shaken, she knelt beside her bleeding companion, and summoned a medkit from her pack. She gently nudged his hands aside and lifted the hem of his shirt, wiping away the blood and dabbing his wounds with a damp rag soaked in bourbon. Her hands trembled, but in the silence, in the quiet following the combat, she began to calm. By the time she'd finished sanitizing the wound and applying a stimpack, her heart had slowed to a manageable beat.

Morgan's knees were stained with Deacon's blood from where she'd knelt in the pool of it, and her hands were crimson after she removed her gloves to tend his wounds. They didn't speak, marinating in the silence as Deacon's injuries healed smooth and Morgan went into a sort of dazed trance, gazing unfocused at Deacon's side.

The man spoke first. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to take that from you."

Morgan blinked. "Take what?" Her voice was raw and rasping.

"Vengeance. I should have let you kill him."

 _Him_. Kellogg. Lying dead on the floor behind her. Morgan remembered shooting, but it was all so... blurry. Her mind threatened to relinquish its grip on reality, trying to disassociate so she could just lay down and sleep.

"No," Morgan said, her voice surprising her with its steadiness. "I couldn't have. I didn't want to kill him."

Deacon's brow furrowed. His one visible eye scanned her face. "Why not?" He looked almost afraid of her answer.

"I'm…" Morgan's chin quivered. She swallowed, made it still. "I'm tired," she whispered. "I'm tired of being angry. Of killing. I just want to go home." Her eyes burned, and tears gleamed in their corners. "I don't want to be afraid anymore."

Deacon's one exposed eye looked very weary. He nodded, then lifted one hand, extending it to her in a tentative offer. "I know."

Morgan accepted, taking his hand in hers and interlacing their fingers.

She could feel him trembling.

* * *

They didn't stay long after that. Morgan slit Kellogg's throat, more for posterity than out of malice. They went back the way they'd came, emerging in the parking deck where Dogmeat greeted them with a cheerful bark.

Now they found themselves clustered around a campfire at nightfall, watching the stars wink into life. Dogmeat dozed at the foot of the fire pit, his head resting on his paws. The faint, musky smell of cooking flesh still lingered in the air, the bones of a wild dog tossed into the trash and covered with leaves and debris. Morgan had offered to let Dogmeat have the bones, but Deacon refused to consider it. _No cannibal canines on my watch_ , he joked. Some of Kellogg's blood was still on his clothes.

Morgan stoked the fire with a piece of scrap metal, adjusting the logs and making the flames snap and bite at the air before resuming their steady burn. Deacon drank, resting his lips against the rim of the bottle as he often did when in thought. Morgan leaned forward in her chair, firelight reflecting in the orbs of her stormy-colored eyes, irises of blue and gray dotted with flecks of green around the edges. Her pale skin looked flushed in the dull glow of the fire, her brown hair orange and gold.

"My son wasn't the only thing Kellogg took from me," Morgan began, unprompted. It was easier to tell the story on her terms than when Deacon was staring at her, expecting an explanation. "I… I wasn't born in the vault. I was born two centuries ago, before the bombs dropped. The vault was… I think, a cryogenic experiment. Preserving Pre-War specimens until the world could sustain life again. But I'm from Boston. Old Boston.

"My mom was an Irish immigrant. Smoked like a chimney. She'd claim she was a die-hard Catholic, then slip me condoms whenever I said I was going out. I don't know what she expected. But she was from a real poor village in Ireland. I never asked her much about her life before having me. My dad was the son of some upper-middle-class businessman who moved to Boston for work. They met, my mom liked his money, my dad liked her tits, and thus I was born.

"I fancied myself a revolutionary. I wanted to become a lawyer. Take down the system from the inside. Know the world inside and out so I could enforce justice - _real_ justice. I wanted to change the world for the better. And that's when I met Nate. Nate was a skinny kid who liked comic books and drawing pictures. He was the first person who thought I… who thought I had value. Who didn't laugh at my ideas, or reassure me that I'd find a good husband someday, or that I'd grow out of my rebellious phase. He thought every aspect of me was beautiful."

Her voice wavered.

"He loved me."

She swallowed hard and continued on, voice huskier than before.

"Then, just before we graduated, he got the draft. A letter in the mail, calling him to military service. We both knew that if he went, he wouldn't come back. But, since I was a straight-A law student, I put my college education to work and fudged the papers enough that I went in his place. It wasn't easy, but I got it done. Mostly on the promise that if I failed, at training or combat or whatever, that I'd be sent home and Nate would go in my place.

"So I didn't let myself fail."

She sighed, eyes unfocusing as she stared into the warm light of the fire.

"I don't like talking about what the military was like. But it changed me. Broke me, I guess. It's like there's this… disconnect, between what I think and what I do. I get scared and I can't stop myself from panicking. Or, I try to help people but I end up scaring them, or attacking them, because that's all I know how to do. And I _thought_ I was getting better. I thought we stood a chance of ending the war, of me and Nate and Sean getting to have our cozy little house with the picket fence and the neighborhood book clubs."

Her eyes fell shut, and she turned her face away from the flames.

"I just wanted to have my happy ending."

She swallowed. "But I guess that wasn't meant to be. The bombs dropped, and I had to go into the Vault. They put me under for two hundred years, or something like that. I don't know when they woke me up to take Sean. That's what I'm trying to find out, now. But when Kellogg took Sean, he killed Nate. And I guess he killed me at the same time, too. I'm just still walking."

She opened her eyes and looked down at her right hand, observing the open palm as she curled her fingers. The scar tissue hidden beneath her glove flexed with her movements. "So that's why I need the drugs," she finished quietly. "I'm not trying to be a hero. I gave up being a revolutionary after going to war. I'm tired of fighting, of caring, of trying to fix other people's mistakes. I just want to…" She released a frustrated sigh. "I don't know. I don't know what I want."

Deacon stayed quiet for a few minutes. He'd somehow come up with a second pair of sunglasses, replacing his broken ones, so his eyes were hidden behind his dark lenses. Then, quietly: "I've lost people." Morgan lifted her head, staring at his profile as he stared up at the sky, one hand tucked behind his head. "At the Switchboard," he continued, "And... a long time ago." The lines around his mouth and eyes seemed deep and heavy, revealing his age.

He took another long swig of his beer, then sighed and rested the empty glass on the ground. "I've used," he confessed, "in the past. I guess I know better than most how hard it is when you're sucking down inhalers but trying to call yourself a good person at the same time. I don't know what works for you, but… the Railroad helped me. And I'm not trying to sell you anything, I promise. But I used to be in a similar position. Didn't know where I was going to go, what I was going to do. Then I got to where I am now. Something about having a cause to devote yourself to - with people better than you are - it makes you feel better by association."

"You really think the Railroad's the right thing to do? The right people to support?"

Deacon's lips twitched in a faint frown, his brow furrowing. "I do, Fix. I really do. If anyone here's got a chance at making the Commonwealth what it should be... I hope to God it's them."

"You believe in a god?"

The older agent released a slow sigh. "Mm. Do I believe there's a magic man in the sky, judging each one of us and granting us good guys eighty-two virgins after we die?"

"Seventy-two."

"Seventy-two virgins after we die? No. Well, I mean. Never say never, but somehow I don't think that's in the cards. Not for me, anyway. But... I like to think that there is something out there. Maybe not the kind of something that sends you to heaven or hell, or gives you blessings in exchange for blood sacrifice, but maybe some kind of grand, universal karma. I like to believe that maybe, in the end, all the good things we do mean something, and that... when you die, you're forgiven." He paused, still staring at the sky. Then, in a murmur: "I _hope_ I'm forgiven."

Then he shook his head, feigning nonchalance and lacing his hands behind his head. "If you believe anything, boss," he said, "believe that I'm in your corner. Railroad or no Railroad. I know I'm not the most reliable guy, but I'm not an asshole. Or... I try not to be. I hope I'm not."

"You're not, Deacon." Morgan seemed about to say more, but closed her lips. "You're not."

Then she rolled onto her side with her back to the fire. She wadded up her pack under head head as a pillow, and a ratty curtain acted as a blanket. The fire flickered and snapped, the wood gradually eaten away by hungry red cinders, leaving behind nothing but black ash. Morgan's eyes fell shut and her mind quieted, and soon her her chest rose and fell in the easy rhythm of sleep.

Deacon watched her, listening to the soothing sounds of the late-night Commonwealth, when the good guys were asleep and the monsters hadn't yet set out on their midnight excursions. Crickets chirped, and one or two fireflies gleamed in the darkness. The moon shone bright and pale above them, half as light as the sun, and dim enough to be beautiful.

"Night, Fix," he murmured at last. "Sweet dreams."


	7. Chapter Six

As soon as they got to the nearest settlement, Morgan sat down at the radio and sent a message to the nearest courier station. A messenger wrote it down and promised to get it to Nick Valentine.

 _Kellogg's dead, in Fort Hagen. I'll be back._

When or how or why, she didn't say. She didn't have the answers to those questions. In fact, there were a lot of questions she didn't have the answers to. Nate was dead, Kellogg murdered, and Sean far out of her reach. The Institute was no closer than it had been a day before, and they had gained nothing concrete from the encounter in Hagen. Now, Morgan had to come to terms with what she wanted to do with herself.

It was freeing, in a strange way. Compared with the agony she'd felt upon leaving the Vault, now she felt almost serene. Perhaps killing Kellogg had helped her psyche. Perhaps her work with the Railroad had given her a sense of purpose. Perhaps Deacon, his footsteps always echoing hers, made her feel less alone. Either way, Morgan was tired, and wanted to take some time for herself.

Deacon followed her, as he always did, with the unspoken understanding that the nature of their relationship had changed. Neither of them drew attention to it - like light on a shadow, looking too closely would ruin it. Instead they kept quiet, passing food and stimpacks between them with a newfound intimacy. Deacon smiled, and monitored her drug use. Morgan's nightmares grew rarer, and she told him not to worry so much.

Morgan wondered if she ought to start calling him her friend.

* * *

"Mm," Deacon hummed. "Mhm. Yeah, no, I say we keep walking."

"Why?" Morgan's brow furrowed as she fiddled with the dials on her Pip-Boy, listening to the distress signal repeat itself.

"That's the Brotherhood of Steel," her companion explained. "They're not a huge fan of the Railroad. Or of synths. Or of general human decency, if I'm being perfectly honest."

"And you're not just exaggerating?"

"I mean, I am and I'm not, if you catch my drift."

"I'm not catching your drift."

Deacon sighed. "They're an authoritarian regime with big pewpew guns who like bullying others into following their dogma. They think synths are freaks of nature that need to be culled. Same with ghouls, who, while irradiated and not always the nicest to look at, can be sentient, depending on what kind of ghoul they are. They're not very nice, and the Railroad tries to steer clear of them."

Morgan grunted. "You realize I can't take your word for it," she pointed out.

"You're sure?"

She shrugged. "We're supposed to be the good guys. Have to give everyone a chance to explain themselves."

"Of all the times you decide to have moral integrity." Deacon sighed again, and waved a hand towards the cluster of buildings ahead of them. Gunfire peppered the air. "If you say so, boss. I'm right behind you."

They weaved through the alleyways between the buildings, taking cover behind boxes and reeking dumpsters. They stopped beside a chain-link gate, barred with only a simple lock. Morgan pulled it apart and caught the lock as it fell. Around the corner of the alley, ghouls flung themselves at the from of the Cambridge Police Station, snarling before being pelted by angry laser fire. Peeking around the corner, Morgan observed the barricade built around the front door of the station. A man in power armor stood on the station steps, glowering at the barricade, and a silent body leaned against the wall beside the door.

"Goddamn it."

"Hm?"

"Ghouls." Morgan jerked her chin forward. "They're pinned down at the front, ghouls breaking the front line. One wounded, unknown variables inside. I'll take point alongside armor guy, you take to the edges and pick off the flankers. Got it?"

"Ten-four, cap'n." He waved two fingers across his brow in a wry mock-salute before dashing back the way they came.

Morgan took a breath and waited a moment, giving Deacon time to come around through another alleyway. Then, she pushed open the gate, throwing her hands over her head and stepping into the barricaded yard of the police station. "Hey!"

The man in power armor jerked, turning to her and hefting his weapon. He had tan skin, and dark eyes, with sweat beading down his temples and unsightly dents in his power armor. Dead ghouls and smouldering ashes littered the yard. Some corpses were slumped over the edge of the barricade where he'd killed them while they were trying to climb over.

"Step back, civilian!" the stranger called. He waved his gun between her and the onslaught. "This is-"

"I heard your distress signal," she shouted, cutting him off. "Don't shoot me, I'll help."

He frowned, and opened his mouth to disagree. But three ghouls charged the barricade at the same moment, interrupting his thought. They hurdled sandbags and debris, sightless eyes alight with murderous intent as they ran. Two sharp pops pierced the air, and one fell, with a bullet in the knee and the other through its temple. Morgan caught the next one, with a single rifle shot that tore through its skull. And the stranger finished the last, searing the ghoul's skin with his laser rifle and filling the air with foul smoke.

The stranger still looked dubious. "I have a friend," Morgan offered. "He'll watch our sides. I'll take point - you handle the ones that get through." And she turned and jogged up onto the top of the barricade.

Easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

From there, the battle lasted only another fifteen minutes. It looked like a herd of ghouls had wandered through the area and decided to throw themselves at the police station. Their lack of ranged attacks meant Morgan could safely pick them off from her position atop the barricade, blowing them to pieces with shotgun blasts as Deacon picked off the stragglers. The stranger didn't even have to do that much.

Soon, the street went quiet, and the road was littered with corpses. The afternoon sunlight glittered off stagnant puddles of water filling the potholes along the sidewalk. Morgan wiped sweat off her brow and returned to the door of the station, catching her breath as she observed the group clustered on the steps. A woman had appeared, now attending to the wounds of the man slumped against the wall. The stranger looked over the yard with a scowl.

Morgan fixed her eyes on the woman. "He gonna be alright?" she asked.

The woman - blonde, short, soft-faced - nodded back. "He'll make it. It'll take a few stimpacks, but he'll pull together."

"Good." Morgan gave them a final once-over before turning to the stranger, and found him staring back with his intense, dark eyes. "Soldier," she greeted, without inflection. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and her skin prickled. Deja vu washed over her - calling to mind years of cold soldiers staring her down. How often had men challenged her as she stood beside corpses?

The stranger stuck out a hand. "Danse."

She shook it. "Morgan. My friend's John. He'll catch up shortly." _John_ was Deacon's preferred alias when he didn't plan on sticking around.

Danse nodded. "Are you... reinforcements?"

"No. I'm a lone operator, who heard your distress signal and came to investigate." She rolled her shoulders, lifting her chin and giving the soldier a wary look. "I'm not too familiar with Brotherhood operations, either. I was interested in seeing how you did things."

"I see." He gave her another probing look, with that vague, condescending air that hadn't changed in two centuries. "I hate to ask for further help, but we're not out of the fire yet. If you wanted to offer assistance, we could use the extra gun on our side."

He was about to continue when Deacon sauntered in, his expression smooth and unthreatening, pistol sheathed. He waved, and flashed his characteristic disarming smile. "John," he said. "I take it you're our latest clients?"

Danse narrowed his eyes. "Yes." Sparing Deacon a dubious look, he returned his attention to Morgan. "We're low on people and supplies are running out. I've been trying to send a signal to my superiors, but the signal's too weak to reach them. Scribe Haylen informs me that there's a location not far from here, with the technology we need to boost the radio transmitter. With a stronger signal, we can request assistance. However, I'm hesitant to recover the technology alone. That's where you'd come in."

Something about the soldier made Morgan uneasy. He reminded her too much of men she had known before, military men who viewed the world in black and white, friend or foe. Ally or enemy - or worse, beneath their notice. Men who felt entitled to whatever they deemed worthy.

Morgan did not care for these men.

"What do I get out of it?" she asked, leaning back and crossing her arms in front of her chest. She quirked an eyebrow, felt a familiar glower settle in on her face.

Danse blinked. His eyes narrowed. "Mercenary. I see." The seeming respect in his voice drained, replaced by distaste. "Well, I can assure you. You'd be duly compensated for your efforts."

Morgan didn't flinch. "How far to the point of interest? How big is our cargo? What kind of and how many adversaries do you expect?"

The soldier's jaw tightened. "Not far," he said, grudgingly. "Close enough we should be back before sundown. The transmitter will be light enough to carry on our person. I'm not sure how many hostiles will be present, but enough I don't want to go alone."

Morgan grunted. "Lots of variables. Two hundred and fifty caps. I supply my own ammo and stimpacks, as does my companion. We help you retrieve the transmitter and return safely. Caps paid when we return to the police station." She stuck out a hand. "Agreed?"

Danse stared her down, dark eyes boring into her own sharp, pale ones, trying to read through the wall of ice and hate she held up between them. Perhaps he thought he could change her mind. Perhaps he thought he might guilt her into being his idea of moral. Whatever he thought, Morgan stared back, and waited for him to give in to her.

At last, he spoke. "Agreed," he said, and shook her hand in his own. "But I lead the way."

 _Of course you do_ , Morgan thought. But she didn't miss the way the tension in the air dissipated, the way Deacon relaxed, and the small sighs released by the woman and the wounded man. "We leave now? Or do you need time?" she said, instead.

"My people have it handled," Danse said, without bothering to look back at the two figures behind him. "Time is of the essence, as I wish to contact my superiors as soon as possible. Let's move."

* * *

Once out of the safety of Cambridge, the buildings thinned until they became sprawling plains. The trio jogged down a cracked concrete road, lined with battered, rusted cars. Danse decided to talk the entire journey, a surprising choice from a man who looked so stern. He walked with heavy stomps, his power armor creaking and clanking in a strange, scraping-metal chorus.

Morgan figured Deacon would appreciate Danse's monotone monologue of Brotherhood intel and operations, so she tuned out, letting him play his spygames as she paid attention to their surroundings. Rounding a corner, they saw a cluster of raiders and wild dogs, battling it out beneath the overhang of a large tree. Morgan opened her mouth to suggest letting them fight it out until the winner emerged, then striking. Before she could speak, Danse rushed forward. A gush of hot laser fire burst from the end of his rifle, and Morgan's eyes widened. She fell back, joining Deacon at the rear.

The pair exchanged a look. A faint, knowing smirk pulled at Deacon's lips.

Morgan narrowed her eyes. "Fuck you," she said aloud, and chased after Danse.

They offed the raiders and dogs without much trouble, and turned around to see Deacon fending off a pack of stingwings that had materialized out of nowhere. The giant, flying bugs hissed and spat, swinging their sharp mandibles at Deacon's head. With two pops of a pistol and a swat from Morgan's sword, the bugs lay dead in a heap, and the road was quiet.

"Are you finished?" Danse asked, sounding irritated.

Morgan bit back a sharp reply and nodded.

They arrived at their destination that afternoon. ArcJet Labs, a bulky building that screamed "science lab." Its parking lot was littered with the remains of what had once been fancy, top-of-the-line nuclear-powered cars. Nuclear power had been the way of the future, Pre-War.

Then again, it _had_ become the future, in a way.

Danse came to a stop in front of the front door, and turned to them with a stern expression. "Listen up. We do this clean and quiet. No heroics, and by the book. Understood?"

Morgan's face contorted in disbelief. "Excuse me?" She released a strange, choked laugh. "I'm not your rookie soldier," she sneered, staring up at him without fear. "I know how to do my job. And you either respect that, or I walk."

She could _hear_ his asshole tightening.

Danse's eye twitched. He grit his teeth. "Understood," he grumbled.

Morgan bit back a smug smirk. "Good." She pushed open the door, and they stepped inside.

The interior looked no different than any other ruined laboratory, all exposed cabling and rotted furniture. To his credit, Danse seemed to get his shit together, taking it slow and checking his corners. His power armor still creaked all to hell, but she couldn't deny his training. He still reminded her too much of her past. Her scars ached.

Some rooms deep into the building, they found a room full of robots. Protectrons, Pre-War security robots that moved slowly and had three-fingered metal claws. Along the far wall were their charging pods. Littering the floor were the robots themselves, bleeding nuts and bolts with exposed circuits where their metal exoskeleton had been torn or burned open.

"Look at these wrecks," Danse murmured, stepping heavily around each robot, trying not to nudge them. "It appears as though the facility's automated security has already been dealt with."

"Recent?" Morgan questioned, examining the bodies. Behind her, she heard Deacon keeping up the rear, his light and careful footsteps contrasting with the paladin's brutishness. "Or old?"

"There's not a single spent ammunition casing or drop of blood in sight," Danse pointed out, nodding at the floor. "These robots were assaulted by Institute synths." He sounded terribly smug. So self-assured and dramatic. Did he expect her to be impressed?

Morgan kept her tone level. "Fresh, or old?"

"Hard to tell. Metal doesn't have the same decomposition as living tissue." Danse gave the bodies a final once-over. "Stay on your guard."

They continued, deeper, into the laboratory. The hallways were narrow and rusted, littered with fallen debris, pieces of jagged tile and pipe protruding from the wall. Shivers went down Morgan's spine when she first heard the now-familiar monotone of Institute synths. Those Protectrons must not have been very old, after all. Like with the raiders and dogs, Danse rushed in at the first sign of action, barking commands and trying to start a firefight in close quarters.

It would have been easier if Morgan could sneak around and pick them off one at a time, but no, Danse insisted on staying in front, blocking her vision and attracting all attention. Deacon lingered behind them both, staying quiet and noticing anything Morgan missed. He pressed ammo into her hands before she knew she was empty, and lifted tech from the synths when Danse wasn't paying attention.

The soldier seemed more preoccupied by the wealth of Pre-War files and technology scattered around the building. "Why do you care about all this?" Morgan asked, as Danse pocketed the contents of yet another filing cabinet.

"To keep it from falling into the wrong hands." Danse spoke without looking at her. "The Brotherhood works to preserve Pre-War knowledge, not to use it. Humanity's proven that they can't be trusted with the technology they have. They proved that when they killed the world. Now, we take all the knowledge we can, and make sure no one can use it again."

"So... the Power Armor. The laser rifles. Why can those be used?"

Danse stopped and faced her, looking sour. "Certain sacrifices must be made so that we can pursue our interests. We have to be able to defend ourselves and our technology, and do what is necessary to continue seeking out new knowledge."

Morgan's lips twitched. She could smell the hypocrisy, but it was to be expected - these kinds of righteous types liked to bend the rules to serve their righteousness. But she didn't care to have this argument. She'd do the job, get paid, and leave him to his own self-important devices.

"I was just curious."

They went on. Through a door with a busted lock, revealed a tall, cylindrical room, with a spiraling staircase that went down to the bottom, guiding them towards an "engine core" that Danse seemed to be pursuing. The room was lit by a selection of bright, fluorescent lights, the kind that run on auxiliary power. Unfamiliar technology hung from the ceiling, held up by mechanical arms and cables.

Down the rickety, winding metal staircase deposited them on some strange, ashen floor. Here, at the bottom of the room, the walls were blackened. Two sets of doors were built into the walls. One, leading into a red-lit maintenance room. And the other, an elevator, the doors pressed firmly shut and the buttons dark and lifeless. "We need to get the power back on," Danse announced, observing the area. "Then we can take the elevator to the core room and retrieve the transmitter."

Deacon and Morgan went into the maintenance room while Danse stayed in the doorway, keeping a lookout. Barren toolboxes and lightless control panels lined the wall. Shelves bearing clipboards and pens and goggles were pushed up into corners. On the far wall, there was a plexiglass window, looking into the blackened chamber. On the control panel just below the window, a singular bright red button gleamed at them. "Engine Start," the label said. Morgan pressed it. Nothing.

"Found something," Deacon called. Around a corner, a dusty fusebox perched on the wall, wires connected to an abandoned terminal. Deacon turned on the terminal and typed into it for a few minutes. Then, the lights twitched and flickered on, the auxiliary lights blinking off and replaced by a brighter, finer light. A computerized voice blared from speakers buried in the walls, confirming that power had been restored.

Then, Danse shouted. Through the window into the chamber, the pair of agents saw synths dropping from the ceiling, vaulting over the top of the stairwell and landing several stories down, only to get back up and start fighting. Danse dug his heels in and fended them off from the doorway, blue and red laser fire intermingling in the air.

"Deacon!" Morgan shouted. "The door!" And she ran, joining Danse at the doorway and levelling her shotgun at the oncoming synths.

Deacon understood. He rushed to the maintenance terminal and typed furiously until the screen shone green and he heard the hallway doors begin to creak closed. The heavy, mechanical doors creaked and squealed, grinding against their hinges as they swung shut. Danse and Morgan backed deeper into the hallway so the doors could close, though more and more synths dropped down. Their metal bodies thumped ominously against the thick doors as they flung themselves at it.

One synth managed to get through the crack in the doors, beeping with menace as Morgan and Danse fired on it. But the doors creaked and moved, closing at last, with the synth still trapped between them. The synth made a few pathetic, electronic noises, and crumbled. The "bones" of its torso cracked and splintered, crushed and held between the doors, and the light in its eyes faded. Its shoulder joint snapped, and its arm fell to the ground with a clatter, still holding the Institute laser rifle.

Danse picked up the rifle without comment.

But they weren't out of the fire just yet. As the doors closed and the synth was crushed, a few seconds later came the new threat. The synths had moved, and were now beating their fists against the plexiglass window. Some used their weapons, trying to melt the window with the heat from their lasers. And more synths were still dripping from the ceiling, with no sign of stopping. Danse, Deacon, and Morgan huddled against the wall opposite the plexiglass window, the beads of sweat on their skin glinting red from the light.

"Well, this is fun," Deacon remarked, his fair skin fairer from fear. "I mean, not how I imagined myself dying, but."

"Deacon, shut up."

"I concur," Danse grumbled, curling and uncurling his hands around his weapon. "I say we set up some cover and re-open the doors, keep them pinned down in the hallway."

"And just shoot until we either run out of ammo or they outnumber us?" Even as she spoke, a few more synths dropped from the walkway and hurled themselves at the window. "There's got to be something we can do."

"Is there?" Danse snapped back. "The best course of action is often the simplest one. I believe I have the strength to-"

"Oh, don't fucking start with me-"

"You know this is a rocket, right?" Deacon interrupted the pair. He stood beside the window, one hand poised over the Engine Start button Morgan had pressed before, now blinking red. "I read it on the terminal. They test rockets in here."

Morgan and Danse blinked. In unison, their eyes drifted down to the button. "Deacon," Morgan said, licking her lips. "Press the button."

Deacon did. It clicked, and the lights in the blackened chamber turned yellow, flashing and spinning like sirens. The computer voice counted down, each number echoing throughout the facility. At last, the synths stopped battering the window and turned around, all their heads turned towards the ceiling in eerie unison. At once, the room thundered with the sounds of heavy doors slamming and locking shut. With the creaking and grinding sound of moving metal, the hunk of tech at the top of the ceiling descended, locking into place.

"Three. Two. One." The computer finished its countdown.

The trio blinked, and a hot gush of light erupted from the ceiling. All three leapt back from the window, throwing their arms over their eyes. Even through the safety of the window, sweat broke out on their skin from the tremendous heat emanating through the plastic. After a minute or two, the heat shut off, and the normal white light returned. The ceiling - the _rocket_ \- lifted up again, metal tinted red and gold where flame had erupted.

Looking out at the room, the floor of the chamber was covered in lumps of steaming, bubbling plastic, a thin layer of ash spread across the ground. Slowly, the trio lowered their arms and looked at each other.

"Damn," Danse remarked.

"I concur," Deacon chirped, and moved back to the terminal to unlock the maintenance door. "Shall we?"

When they exited, the synth's arm was still laying in the hallway, along with flecks of its skull and torso that had landed on this side of the doorway. On the other side, the metal door was covered with a steaming black gunk where the synth's body had melted. The room was almost unbearably hot.

"The walls and floors must be thermodynamic," Danse murmured, observing their surroundings. "To sustain that amount of heat, and be functional after-"

"You can gush over that later," Morgan interrupted. "We don't know if the synths have stopped coming. We need to go in, grab the transmitter, and get out. Quickly."

Danse swallowed, the muscles in his jaw seizing as he bit back some kind of remark. "I had the same thought myself," he said, after a moment. "Allow me." And he took the lead. Again.

Power restored, they could at last enter the elevator leading to the engine core. When they reached the bottom of the elevator shaft, the door released a warped _ding_ noise and creaked open, with some difficulty. This part of the facility was darker, and more damaged, covered with busted open control panels and patches where the walls or pipes had been busted open. As the trio stepped out, they saw a cluster of synths, heading down a side hallway with a large chunk of tech in their arms. Their eyes met, and the synths turned and ran.

Morgan and Deacon shared a look before pulling out their weapons and chasing after Danse, who'd already barreled down the hall. Luckily, synths weren't made to be on the defensive, and crumpled easily to a few shots in the back. Danse went forward, kicking aside the bodies, and lifted the technology they had tried to make off with. "The Deep Range Transmitter," he murmured, examining it.

"Do you think they were trying to sabotage you?" Morgan asked.

"If that is the case, I'd be very concerned," Danse remarked seriously. "No, more than likely, I suspect them of trying to take it for their own nefarious deeds. There's no knowing what the Institute has planned." He paused, the cumbersome device filling his hands. "Who's going to hold this?"

Morgan arched a brow. "I don't see why you can't."

"I need my weapon," Danse responded, patronizingly. "I am sure your companion is capable of carrying this. And we shouldn't be far off now from the exit. It won't take long."

So Deacon became the pack mule, and Morgan's glower deepened. But as Danse said, it didn't take long before they fended off a handful of synths and emerged from below ground through a hidden back entrance. Danse punched through the rusted bunker door with a grunt, exposing them to the late afternoon sunlight and cool Boston breeze. Morgan let out a relieved sigh, lowering her weapon and helping Deacon get the transmitter through the narrow doorway.

The bunker itself looked like a particularly sturdy trailer, just sitting out in the middle of nowhere, with a small, fenced-in yard surrounding it. Danse stood in the middle of the yard and waited for them, watching them push the transmitter through the door and place it gingerly on the ground. When they stood up and faced him, he spoke.

"Well, that could have gone smoother, but mission accomplished."

Morgan arched an eyebrow. "I'm not sure how much smoother you expected that to go."

Danse lifted his chin, looking self-important again. "You were resistant to following orders and to falling in line, and your so-called companion contributed little to the operation. However," he allowed, "your training is inarguable. You know what you're doing, and you did it clean. Differences in approach can be worked out. But people with your level of calm and marksmanship are invaluable. I'm not certain I could have accomplished the mission alone."

Morgan imagined he was trying to compliment her. "Thank you," she grumbled, grudgingly. She didn't like the dig at Deacon, either. "Though I can't say I asked for an evaluation."

"Accepting constructive criticism is the best way to improve ourselves both physically and mentally," Danse informed her.

Morgan bristled sharply. "And you're just so smart and strong that _I'm_ the one who needs criticizing, not you."

Danse's dark eyes flashed, and he set his jaw. "If you have a problem, I'm listening, mercenary."

Hot fury gushed into her bloodstream, tinting her cheeks and making her eyes spark. "Oh, I've got some fuckin' problems, pal."

Then Deacon swept in, all smooth and soothing and smiling. "My employer has anger issues, if you didn't notice, Mr. Paladin, sir. Her mood tends to lighten if she's got caps in her pocket. Maybe we could speak more reasonably if all our debts were paid?"

Danse gave Deacon a displeased look, but then exhaled through his nose and fumbled through his things for the caps. He lifted a patchwork bag from his belongings and held it out towards the pair, the caps within clinking together. "Two hundred and fifty caps. As agreed."

Morgan plucked the pouch from his hand and stuffed it into her pack. "Fine. We're done here."

She turned to go, but Danse's voice hit her ear from behind. "We could use people like you," the man called out. "If you can learn to control your temper and respect authority, there's a place for you in our organization. It would be more honorable than killing for money."

Morgan's hands curled into fists, the leather of her gloves creaked as her hands shook. How _dare_ he. How _dare he_? He had the _gall_ to insinuate that she was just some common murderer, and the gall to suggest that she needed to learn to "control herself." Oh, she'd show him control. She'd control her hand to keep it real still and slow as she fucking slit his throat. Let him learn what true fury and righteous indignation was.

Men like him had ruined the world. Ruined _her_ world. Danse was just like every military superior that had told her to "get it together" in the military, when she had panic attacks and cried and couldn't bear the sight of another dead body. Danse was just like every doctor that told her she'd "adjust better" to civilian life if she had surgery to remove her scars and replace them with a prettier face. Danse was just like all those self-entitled Vault-Tec bastards who promised to capitalize on fear to turn a profit.

She knew _synths_ more human than him.

Morgan made to turn around, hand jerking for her shotgun. She could get off one or two shots, pierce the metal of his helmet, catch him off-guard. Then, hack him limb from limb, feed him to wild fuckin' dogs, sell his armor for scrap and then go back and wipe the Cambridge fucking Police Station from the face of the fucking earth. Then she'd go have a Nuka-Cola with some ghouls in Goodneighbor and save some synths for the Railroad, just to spite him.

But Deacon's hand caught her wrist. She almost struck him, but looked up instead, glaring into his sunglasses. He stared back, lips a neutral line across his face. Very, very slightly, he shook his head.

Morgan yanked her hand away and swore under her breath. She allowed herself one retort. "Fuck you," she said, tossing the curse over her shoulder, back at the paladin.

Thankfully, Danse didn't reply, or she might have done something Deacon would regret. Morgan walked off across the fields, and Danse went the other way, going to the front of the laboratory and retracing their steps along the road to return to the police station.

Deacon respected Morgan's angry silence for a few moments. Then, he leaned over, murmuring casually at her ear. "You know, I told you following the distress signal was a bad idea."

It's a testament to Morgan's self-control that she didn't kill him then and there.


	8. Chapter Seven

Morgan and Deacon kept in this comfortable pattern. Odd jobs, the occasional Railroad mission. Save a synth, do some old lady's gardening, rescue a child's toy from some disagreeable molerats. They enjoyed each other's company, passing the time by talking or playing cards. They traveled. Deacon sent back dead drops and holotapes of intel. Morgan upgraded their weapons and armor. Life was almost peaceful.

Then Nick Valentine summoned them.

"The Memory Den, huh?" Deacon remarked, peering over Morgan's shoulder to examine the letter. "And Amari. I wonder why he thinks we need her."

"Amari?" Morgan lowered the paper, looking aside and arching a brow.

Deacon stepped back from her shoulder, raising his hands in a noncommittal shrug. "Amari's a brain doctor. She's the one who does all the memory work on our synths - the ones who can't take life on the surface but who still want to be free. She hacks into their brain, makes them think they were born human, and we set them out into the world thinking they stopped by Goodneighbor for a medical check-up."

"That seems…"

"Like an uncomfortable solution? Yeah, we know. But we don't have the resources for safe, intensive therapy, so the best we can do is give them the new life they want - just, without remembering their old one." He shrugs. "At least it's optional. We only offer it to the synths who _really_ can't handle wasteland life."

Morgan blinked. "Like H2."

Deacon frowned, taking a moment to remember the name. "Yeah, actually." He gave her a curious look that she pointedly ignored.

"So you think this is Railroad business?" she asked, keeping her eyes on the paper.

"Who knows. Just have to keep our ears and eyes open, I guess."

"And make sure to hide our caps."

"Good idea."

Goodneighbor was run by the inscrutable John Hancock, a sentient ghoul who went around in colonial clothes and spouted off about anarchy and libertarianism. Morgan had earned her place in Goodneighbor by doing jobs for him, offing his political rivals in exchange for food, lodging, and discounts at the local shops. Hancock appreciated her skill and discretion, and Morgan liked a place to call home.

Though their relationship was mercenary, Morgan insisted on an equal arrangement. She called him John instead of Hancock, his first name instead of his last. She refused to work unless he told her the reasons why, never working for the money alone. He didn't always, so she didn't always work for him. It was a relationship of mutual respect, and for that, Morgan could at least appreciate why the ghoul's citizens loved him so dearly.

Goodneighbor was a home for misfits, freaks, and the unwanted. Families and children mingled with murderers, addicts, and sex workers. All of Goodneighbor was a red light district - anything that could be bought was sold there. By that same token, however, no bullshit was brokered. People were free to fight or kill or settle disputes among themselves, so long as they were prepared to get a visit from the mayor if they crossed a line or two.

Morgan liked it there. The people liked and respected her. She didn't have to worry so much about playing nice, or looking too scary. Nobody gave anybody else orders or tried to adhere to any rigid set of laws. And the bars always kept their Nuka-Cola cold. Later, after joining the Railroad, she found that Hancock believed in his "freedom for all" mantra enough to provide safe places for synths to crash at. More than a few of Goodneighbor's residents were synths, too, knowing or otherwise.

Yeah, it was a good place. Deacon was a tad too delicate for it, she noticed. Averting his eyes when they passed a topless woman servicing someone in an alley, or getting all pouty and subdued when they passed a group of kids drawing chalk dicks on the street. But they found their way to the Den and stepped inside, letting the red light and unmistakable odor of human depravity wash over them.

Irma was there, as the figurehead of the Memory Den. Thirty-five, unfairly busty, and all too kind to her clients. She reclined on a chaise lounge in the center of the Den, surrounded by memory pods and the dull-eyed patrons within them. She looked the picture of sin in her feathered dress and corset. "Here for Amari?" she asked. "She's downstairs. Nick told me to expect you."

Morgan nodded, and headed down the indicated stairwell. The lighting turned from red to blue, and the creaking steps deposited them at the doorway of what looked like a small laboratory, two memory pods on either side of the room and a selection of tech lining the walls. Nick was there, his back to the doorway as he murmured to a brown-skinned woman with worry lines etched into the corners of her eyes. The woman looked over Nick's shoulder as they entered, and stepped around him, looking them over. "Ms. Morgan, I assume," she said.

"You must be Amari." Morgan stepped forward. "Nick tell you why we're here?"

"A bit. But he wanted you here before we began anything."

Nick came forward, hands in the pocket of his trenchcoat as the group fixed their eyes on him. "I found something, on Kellogg," he said. "Something that might help us get into the Institute."

Morgan's pulse quickened, but she stayed cautious. "What kind of thing?"

"Cybernetic augmentations. Least, that's what it said on the fine print." Nick pointed to a jar on Amari's table, where a hunk of circuits and brain matter sat suspended in clear medical fluid. "Tech, mixed in with Kellogg's... everything."

Morgan stared at the jar for a moment before squinting and shaking her head. "Why?" she questioned, looking between the woman and the synth. ""Why was that in his skull? Why were you _in_ his skull, Nick?"

"I happened to be checking the body, and I saw some stuff inside him where he'd been shot. I'll spare you the gruesome details. The point is, this guy was at least part synth. And if we're lucky, that part might be all we need for Amari to do her thing and get us a look at Kellogg's memories."

"And if we're even luckier, those memories might involve the Institute," Morgan finished, and looked to Amari. "You really think this is possible?"

The doctor hesitated. "I think it's mad," she began, pursing her lips. "But this piece Mr. Valentine brought, it... it has everything I'd need if I were to run the procedure on a human host. And Mr. Valentine might be an older generation synth, but Institute technology tends to follow the same structure. I believe I could use his circuitry to 'host' Kellogg, so to speak. And if you were in a connected memory pod, you could travel through the memories and find what you need."

Morgan hesitated, nibbling her lower lip. At last, she nodded. "Where do we start?"

Amari unscrewed the lid of the jar, gingerly removing the hunk of brain and wiping it off. "Here." She pulled some cables from a nearby terminal, plugging them into a few ports in the flesh's circuitry. Her fingers flew across the terminal keyboard, and one of the memory pods hummed into life, the interior lights blinking on. "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Valentine," Amari said, and gestured to a chair beside the bright pod.

Nick sat down and leaned back in the chair, eyes on Amari as she gently popped open a panel in his skull. She prodded at his insides, shifting wires and poking circuits. Morgan shifted on her feet, thinking of something to do to pass the time, and suddenly remembered Deacon. She turned around and saw him leaned against the wall behind her, arms crossed and a passive expression on his face. "Do you... want to go?" she asked. She suddenly felt exposed, like he'd caught her in the act of something. "I don't know how long this'll take."

Deacon shrugged, pushing up his sunglasses. "I've got nowhere to be, Fix. Don't worry about me. I'll just pester Amari while you're both out of it. I'm sure she won't mind."

"Very funny, Deacon," Amari said, her back to them as she fumbled with some wiring at her computer.

"What, I don't get a special title? Mr. Valentine, Ms. Morgan, and then just _Deacon_? I'm disappointed, 'Mari."

Amari shook her head, ignoring him and fixing her eyes on the other woman. "It's time."

Morgan took a breath and pushed through her uncertainty, nodding and sitting down in the open pod after setting down her pack. Claustrophobia washed over her, and her breath caught. A faded, vinyl cushion propped up her neck, misshapen after years of other people's necks pushing it down. "Keep your fingers crossed," she heard Amari mutter, and suddenly the chair shifted, reclining her on her back with the top of the pod locking down over her.

Her heart pumped rapidly, a sweat breaking out on her skin. She licked her dry lips, eyes scanning the lid of the pod, desperately seeking the outside. She twitched when Deacon suddenly loomed over her, his lips pressed together in that line of worry, brows furrowed into his sunglasses. He opened his mouth, but faltered, like he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words.

Deacon watched the pod tilt back so she was reclining instead of sitting. Her eyes sought his until the windows of the pod rippled and the screens went up, so she couldn't see out, but they could still see in. He saw her fingers dig sharply into the vinyl armrests, tearing the brittle stitched and revealing ratty stuffing inside. Her eyes darted around, back and forth, her jaw clenched tight. Then, she relaxed. Her eyes unfocused, and all the tension in her limbs drained, leaving her limp and unresponsive.

Deacon never much cared for the Memory Den. He didn't like dwelling on the past, and it's not like he had many memories he wanted to relive, anyway. If you spend too much time focusing on what was, you might lose sight of what _is_ , and then nobody can help you.

He stood over the pod for several minutes, uneasy concern beating cold in his chest. Amari murmured into a microphone beside her terminal, talking about things he couldn't see. Deacon took a breath and walked away from Morgan's pod, trying to ignore the nervous urge to fidget as he sat down and did his best to look like a bored follower.

An eternity later, Amari raised her voice. "Alright. I think... I think that's everything. Let's wake them up." First, she went to Nick, reaching into the circuitry of his brain, and his dull eyes began to glow gold again. Deacon's breath hitched, but he didn't dare move, remaining still until he was sure everything had gone smoothly. The synth endured a brief check-up from Amari, who confirmed that Valentine was in one piece. Unplugging the cords and cables from him, Amari let Nick rise from the chair, and he tipped his hat at them both before heading upstairs to wait for Morgan.

Amari's gaze flickered to Deacon, expecting him to go upstairs with Nick, give Morgan some space when she emerged. Deacon knew he ought to leave the room, let Amari ask her questions in peace, but he still felt hesitant. He'd been the last thing Morgan saw before she went under - it didn't feel right to let her wake up alone.

"I'll stick around," he said, a pleasant smile on his lips. "Fixer will probably have me sent back to HQ as soon as she wakes up, but I'll stay here until she says otherwise. Don't want to jump the gun."

Amari nodded, dark eyes unreadable. She turned back to her terminal, typing into the machine until the memory pod hummed and hissed, swinging up and open and exposing the woman inside. Morgan blinked dazedly, and sat up, staggering to her feet with some difficulty. Deacon almost went over to help her up, but balled his hands into fists instead, digging his nails into the heel of his palms.

Morgan's hair dangled in thin strands. Her skin was pale, paler than usual, her eyes having trouble focusing. Her hands trembled, and she stepped as if unsure of her balance. She wouldn't look at either of them, staring down at the floor with a strange expression.

Amari stepped forward, hands outstretched. "How do you feel?"

A moment passed. "Odd." Her voice sounded rough. Tight. Controlled.

"Are you ready to talk about what happened in there?"

Morgan's shoulders tensed, and her elbows pressed tight to her sides, legs positioned shoulder-width like she was about to fall over. Her throat bobbed with a hard swallow, and she looked up, eyes dull and empty. "The Institute uses teleporters," she announced, voice rough and dry. "And the boy with him was my son. They were here recently."

Deacon saw Amari stop and frown. She'd want the truth, out of a genuinely kind-hearted desire to make sure Morgan was alright. But if Deacon knew anything, he knew Morgan couldn't do anything but shut down when she got like this. Asking questions would only make it worse. "The Institute uses teleporters?" he interrupted. "Shocking. How do we know this?"

Morgan processed for a moment before replying. "The memories," she grunted. "That's why no one's able to find them, or their headquarters. They teleport everywhere they need to go. Untraceable."

Amari exhaled, acquiescing to Morgan's stubbornness. "That scientist - Virgil, the one mentioned by that Courser. He may have some knowledge of how to access one of these teleporters. And if nothing else, he's the only person we know with memories and knowledge of the Institute." Her brow furrowed. "But the memory said he was in the Glowing Sea. That doesn't make sense. No one goes there. Not even if they were desperate."

"That's what he said, Amari," Morgan said, suddenly sharp and bitter. "And it's the only lead we have. So that's where I'm going, desperate or not. I'll handle it." And she grabbed her pack, hoisting it over her shoulder.

The doctor extended a hand after her. "Before you go," she said, carefully, "H2 left something for you. He had no chance to say goodbye in person, so..." Amari pressed a weathered holotape into Morgan's hand. "I suggest you listen to it, when you have the chance."

Morgan stilled, fingers curling around the delicate tape. She swallowed thickly. "Thank you, Amari." And then she ducked away, chin falling to her chest as she ascended the stairs and fled the laboratory. Deacon followed suit after giving Amari a polite nod and saying goodbye.

When Deacon reached the head of the stairs, Morgan and Nick had already said their goodbyes, the synth on his way out while Morgan lingered in the corner, running her fingers over the unmarked holotape. Deacon hesitated, but went to her side, a careful distance between them. "You ready to go, boss?"

"Yeah, I just-" She closed her hand around the tape, stuffing it into her pocket and running her hand over her face. "I just need a minute."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Morgan looked at him through a crack between her fingers. "Do _you_?"

"Yes. Maybe." His shoulders slumped, and he gave her an imploring look. "I'm just trying to help, Fix."

"I don't need your help."

"I _know_ that," he said, frustrated. "But it's there, if, you know... you want it."

That made her go quiet, hands sliding into her pockets as she leaned against the wall and stared at the ground. She didn't offer a reply or a thank you, just stepped away from the wall after a few seconds and shuffled towards the exit. Without a word, she walked next door and slipped into the Hotel Rexford, throwing a handful of caps on the front desk and heading upstairs before Claire could finish telling them not to make a mess.

Morgan opened the door to a dingy room, two mattresses pushed together on a rickety bedframe to make something resembling a king-sized bed. A window stood at the far end of the room, letting in natural light and a glimpse of the street below, the Third Rail and Old State House just across the way. Drifters shuffled around, exchanging money or drugs or just shooting the breeze. Morgan threw her pack under a table near the bed, and with her back to Deacon, pulled the bobby pins from her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders in dark, unwashed locks.

"Are we staying here?" Deacon asked, hesitantly dropping his things beside hers.

"Since I paid for the room, I should hope so." She sat down on the bed, staring off into space for a moment before raising her forearm, looking into her Pip-Boy. She pressed a few buttons on the screen, and the tape player popped open. Without a word, she slid H2's message inside, and pressed play.

Deacon opened his mouth to ask if he should go, but the audio was already on. "The doctor said I could say goodbye," began the familiar, wavering voice. "I've decided... to have the operation. I know I'll lose all my memories. I don't want you to be sad. I... I have nightmares. And this world, the SRB, being hunted. I just can't handle it. Everyone says I'll be safer if I start a new life. I know I'll be happier. My only regret is I'll forget... Old Man Stockton. High Rise. And you. Looking back, there's only fear. Worse than fear. But I will miss my new... friends." A woman spoke, too far away the mic to pick up. "I... uh... Thanks." And the holotape clicked off.

A heavy silence settled in the room as Morgan stared at her Pip-Boy. Deacon was frozen, silent, unsure what he should say or do. He wasn't sure what would incur or fend off Morgan's growing mental break. He opened his mouth to speak, and she looked away, standing up and grabbing a bundle from her pack before vanishing into the bathroom. Suddenly left alone, Deacon exhaled, taking off his jacket and running a comb through his wig with a shaking hand. He sat back on the bed, the wood creaking dangerously under his weight, and waited for Morgan to appear.

She emerged a few moments later, holding her armor and a selection of spent toiletries. Now she wore a set of jeans, boots, and a dark leather jacket over a sleeveless gray shirt. Water droplets gleamed on her cheeks where she'd splashed water on her face, her hair charged with static where she'd run a dry brush through it. The shadows under her eyes were darker, and her scars looked deeper than ever. Deacon hadn't realized she owned a change of clothes. He'd never seen her change.

Morgan dumped her things into a dresser drawer, then stuffed her hands in her pockets and went to the door. "Where're you going?" Deacon asked, standing abruptly.

"Out," she stated. "I'm not leaving Goodneighbor. I should be back... sometime." Then she left, ducking out before he could argue. Her steps faded away down the hall, descending the distant stairwell until Deacon couldn't hear them anymore. Ruminating on his worries, he moved to the window, staring at the street for a few minutes. Just before he decided to go back to bed, he saw Morgan emerge from the front door of the Rexford, hands shoved in her pockets and her head down. He watched her walk across the street, glancing from side to side, and stop beside Hancock's door. She knocked, then went inside, shutting it behind her.

Deacon swallowed, and moved away from the window.

* * *

Fahrenheit knocked on the door as she opened it. "Hancock," she grunted, sticking her head in through the crack. "Someone here to see you."

Hancock quirked a hairless brow. "Somebody I know?"

Fahrenheit glanced behind her. "Yeah." She pushed the door open, holding it as the person stepped inside. They shuffled into the room, hands stuffed in their pockets, like a child into the principal's office.

Hancock looked them over. He had a habit of forgetting faces, but he never forgot people. Careful difference, there. Something about this guy felt off. Then they lifted their chin, and Morgan's face stared back at him, all wide eyes and deep, jagged scars. If he didn't know better, he'd say she looked like she was tweaking. Twitching, eyes darting around, shoulders squeezed tight like someone was pushing them together. Eyes looked too sharp, too focused. Getting close to a thousand yard stare.

He chuckled, and tilted his tricorn hat back. "Well, look at you. Almost didn't recognize you, what without your usual get up."

Morgan didn't blink. He wasn't sure she _had_ blinked since she walked in. "I need a favor." Her voice cracked, and wavered, and her jaw clenched.

The easy smile that split his lips faded slightly, and he glanced towards Fahrenheit, still standing in the doorway. "Mind giving us a little privacy?"

"Sure, boss." As Fahrenheit moved to leave, Morgan flinched at the word 'boss,' piquing Hancock's curiosity.

When the door clicked shut, Hancock leaned closers, elbows resting on the surface of his desk. He cocked his head to the side. "Whacha need?"

"A…" She faltered, and dropped her eyes from his, looking around his room. "... A favor." She moved to one of the lounges near his desk, making a face at the dark patches staining the fabric. She sat down, doing her best to sit between the stains. Hancock didn't tell her that that couch was probably 90% dried fluid at this point.

He kept quiet, giving her a chance to collect her thoughts as she toyed with her hands and stared off into space. "I know you have drugs," she blurted, hands curling into fists as she forced the words out. "And you know I've never asked you for anything before. Nothing more than what you gave me for my work. But I just-" She closed her eyes and mouth, face screwed up as if in frustration or pain. She sighed. "I don't want to make this a habit, but… I need your help," she murmured.

Hancock nodded slowly, taking in the weight of her request. He hadn't pegged her for a druggie when he first met her. Someone who'd been through some shit, sure, but those types tended to be open about their self-medication. Hunching over the bar, visiting the local men or women of the night, or partaking in a few illicit substances. But she'd been so adamant about not doing any of those things. Which, in Goodneighbor, marked her as a freak among freaks.

But this was all speculation for later. Morgan might be an unknown variable, but at the moment, she was a person in need. "Jet or Med-X?" he asked, with an easy smile. "No judgements here."

Some of the tension in her shoulders dissipated. "Jet," she mumbled.

Anxiety, then. Not pain. Good to know. "Tolerance?"

Her brow furrowed. "I don't know?"

"Gotcha, gotcha." So she did drugs, but didn't know her dose size or tolerance. So many questions. But he pulled an average dose of Jet from his desk drawers, shaking it in his hand and listening to the swish of the drug within. He stood and went to her, holding it out. "Free of charge."

Her eyes lingered on the inhaler. "I'll pay you back," she said, cautiously wrapping her fingers around the offering.

He laughed. "Free of charge means you don't owe me, doll."

"But I do," she insisted. She took the inhaler and held it to her chest. "I'll pay you back," she said again, dropping her chin to her chest.

Hancock didn't push it. He let her stare at the inhaler while he went and grabbed himself his own ride of choice, flopping down on the lounge beside her with no thoughts to the stains. "What?" he asked, grinning at her when she looked at him. "Why let you have all the fun?" He placed a bright pink pill on his dry tongue and took a swig of gin from his flask, easing the capsule down his throat.

Beside him, Morgan took a deep breath and pressed on the inhaler, sucking the drug into her lungs before she could change her mind. He sensed her relaxing, sinking into the cushions and letting out a dreamy exhale. As the world around him grew dim and pink-hued, he heard a distant whisper.

"Thanks, John."

"Anytime."


	9. Chapter Eight

They brought her back in the early morning, when most residents were too busy sleeping off last night's festivities to be nosy. Deacon almost had a heart attack when a key turned in the lock and Hancock himself swaggered in through the door, two Neighborhood Watchmen at his heels, with Morgan dangling from their grasp. Arms over their shoulders and her chin to her chest, she looked limp and lifeless. "Special delivery," the ghoul announced, pocketing the skeleton key he'd come in with.

Deacon had jumped to his feet at the first clink in the lock, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and jeans, and clutching his silenced pistol in his hand. "Hey, there, mayor," he said uneasily, watching the two larger men drop Morgan's body on the bed. "Interesting night?"

"Our friend isn't a happy tripper," Hancock announced, arching an eyebrow - or rather, the skin where an eyebrow ought to be. "I don't want any funny business. Look after her. I'd do it myself, but Fahrenheit hates it when they stay overnight, and I figured you'd be concerned." The eyebrow twitched again. "I _hope_ you're concerned."

"I am, I am." Deacon kept sneaking glances at Morgan's prone form. "She's not... dead, I hope?" His heart beat rapid and cold in his chest.

"No. No overdose, nothing. I take care of my people. Even if they're technically _your_ people." The ghoul pulled a tin from his pocket, scooping out two Mentats and knocking them back with an accompanying swallow from his flask. "I hope you guys know what you're doing. Morgan's good folk. Hate to see something happen to her."

"You know something I don't, Mr. Mayor?" Deacon said cordially, even as he went to inspect Morgan's body. He pressed two not-trembling fingers to the curve of her neck, opening her mouth and holding his ear above her lips. A calm, steady pulse beat against his fingertips, and warm breath puffed against his skin.

Hancock gestured lazily to Deacon's actions. "You don't trust me?"

"Technically, I'm not supposed to trust anyone," Deacon chirped, flashing a disarming smile. "Railroad policy."

"Mhm." The ghoul stuffed his flask back in his coat pocket, and gestured for the two watchmen to leave. When their room fell silent, he took a few purposeful steps toward, black eyes meeting black shades. "Now, I've never been one to get involved in other people's business - without a good reason. And that agent of yours just showed up on my doorstep, took my drugs, and depressed the hell out of me. She might be your people, but she's in my town. I don't want to see your organization mistreating good people."

Deacon swallowed, picking his words carefully. "It's not us," he said, softly. "We're doing the best we can, Hancock. She's... been through some tough times, recently."

Hancock stared into the agent's sunglasses for a few seconds, before leaning back and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Well, ain't we all." He raised his chin. "You need anything, just send word down to Claire. It'll go on my bill. It's my job to take care of my Neighbors, and I say Morgan counts." He moved to the door, looking back to tip his hat. "Look after her, kid."

"You're the same age I am, Hancock," Deacon tried to joke, ignoring the fact that his passed out partner lay on the bed five feet from him. He exhaled, and spoke more seriously. "I'll try."

"See that you do." The ghoul shut the door, and his footsteps faded away.

At last alone, Deacon turned to take in Morgan's appearance, his brow furrowing in worry as he rolled her over onto her back, wanting her to breathe easy. But his hands stilled when she lay on her back, upper torso exposed to the light.

She didn't have her coat on.

Deacon had never seen her without something over her torso. Hell, he'd never seen her in _any_ state of undress before. To his knowledge, she fought, pissed, and slept in that combat armor of hers, with faded military fatigues just under that. He wasn't sure he'd ever even seen her with her hair down.

But now, without her coat, he stood in solemn observation, taking in the dozens of pale lines criss-crossing her arms and torso like some twisted, human tic-tac-toe game. Some lines were thin and straight, others jagged and deep. Very little smooth skin remained, just thick scar-on-scar tissue that exposed the touch of a thousand knives.

Deacon wondered where she'd been to get so many marks. Even modern-day slaves weren't... marred, like that. They got lashed, sometimes, as he'd heard from many unfortunate souls, but few got tortured enough to leave these kinds of scars. But Morgan hadn't been a slave, as far as he knew. And surely Pre-War soldiers weren't cut up like patchwork dolls.

He wasn't sure whether to feel sick or to cry, and settled on shocked silence. The flesh of her neck was untouched, but gentle, probing touches around the hem of her black tank top revealed the same scarring below her collarbone and on her midriff. Deacon stepped back a moment, took in her entire appearance. Mouth slack, eyes shut, clothes mussed, and hair falling into her face. What did she _do_?

Ignoring the prickling, unsettling sensation that danced along his nerves, he retrieved her coat from the floor and threw it over her, balling up her fatigues and setting it under her head as a pillow. He paced, trying to work through the nervous energy burning in his chest and radiating out through his limbs. But he couldn't relax, and spent the restless hours fiddling with the games on Morgan's Pipboy and skimming magazines. Anything to distract him from his own brain.

By noon she'd shifted, but still not awakened, and Deacon sent word down to Claire to send up food and coffee. Soon, a platter of fresh produce accompanied by a coffee pot and hot plate arrived at his door. Plugging the hot plate into the wall, and setting the water to boil, he then paced, again, back and forth in front of the window, keeping his steps light and quiet, his hands toying over and over with his wig. It always seemed to itch when he was agitated.

"Stop."

Her voice caught him off-guard, made his heart skip a beat. He swallowed. _Be cool_. "Sleep well?" he asked, trying to sound pleasant.

She grumbled, a rough noise that rumbled up past dry lips. She laid there, motionless, the stillness of someone trying to avoid aggravating a headache. Deacon stood frozen in place for a few seconds, waiting to see if she'd say anything more. When she relapsed into silence, Deacon moved again, heading towards the now steaming coffee pot. He faltered for a moment, trying to remember why he put the water on in the first place.

 _Oh. Right. Food. Drink._

He fumbled for the chipped plates and cups, careful not to clink them together as he placed a few items of food together. Behind him he heard her sit up with a low groan, fabric shifting as the coat fell away from her. He resisted the urge to scratch his wig as she took the plate and drinks, instead watching her set the cup aside to cool and rest the plate in her lap. He toyed with his hands as Morgan stared blankly at the food, almost like she didn't recognize it. "How long was I out?" she asked, after a few seconds of silence.

Deacon swallowed. "Two days," he replied. His throat felt tight. On one hand, it would be so easy to smooth this all over with false cheerfulness. On the other, he'd been panicking for two days, and hadn't quite stopped yet. "They brought you in around six this morning."

"'They'?"

"The Neighborhood Watch. They said Hancock arranged it."

Morgan fell silent again, but nodded, as if unsurprised. She remained motionless, hair half-fallen over her face so he couldn't see her expression, no body language to examine. Just numbness. Eventually she set the plate on the dresser and picked up the mug of tea, holding it in both hands and letting the warm steam waft up onto her skin.

Deacon distracted himself, turning away to mess with his own plate and cup, talking about nothing to comfort himself. "It's been sunny out while you were gone. Lots of light, no rain. I guess that's a good thing when most people sleep out in the streets. I wonder what they do when it rains. Hancock probably lets them into the Old State House. Or maybe Claire lets them sleep here. Well, probably not. Claire's a capitalist. Needs money for everything. I'm more of a communist myself, honestly. Red Menace? Pssh. More like Red... Schmenace. Read about it in in a book once, and-" He waved his hands grandly, still with his back to Morgan. "-it changed my life. It's, yeah. Whew. A lifechanger, really, I-"

"Deacon." He flinched, but just slightly enough he hoped she wouldn't notice. "Stop."

"Sure, boss. Um." Deacon searched for a better reply, and found none. He turned around, stirring his own cup of tea, and in his peripheral vision he saw the pale scars standing out against her skin. "Uh. Your coat." She blinked, and that seemed to register, grasping for her coat and pulling it up over her arms, clutching it close to her chest. Her eyes were wide, hard, daring him to say something, daring him to apologize so she had an excuse to defend herself. Deacon swallowed. "I didn't know you were a slave."

Morgan blinked. He hadn't taken her bait, hadn't turned this into a fight like she wanted. She seemed to relax, releasing the iron grip on the fabric of her coat, and instead clasping both hands around her warm mug. Her eyes flickered away from his, looking at the other end of the room. "I was in the military." And she plucked out her teabag, ending the statement there like it explained enough.

Deacon nodded, letting the spoon spin in the cup as the currents carried it along. "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."

Again, she hadn't expected that response, and to his surprise, tears glimmered in the corners of her eyes, until she reached up a hand to hastily rub them away. Her throat seized, and her shoulders tensed, obviously fighting off whatever his small kindness had triggered. The entire situation already had him off-balance - now Morgan was crying? He itched his wig again, the inside of the damn plastic scraping the smooth surface of his head. No matter how much he scratched, the damn thing wouldn't stop chafing. At last he sighed, pulling it off his head and dropping it on a nearby end table.

He came and sat next to her on the bed, a careful amount of space between them. This seemed to stem the flow of tears, her throat bobbing as she wiped her eyes and stared somewhere around his knee. "There's no shame in it, you know," he said at last, finding it easier to talk than let the tension consume them. "In being a slave to someone. Or some _thing_ , whatever happened. We don't get a lot of slaves in the Commonwealth, but I've been around. They're pretty common in a lot of other places. Something about humans being terrible people." He took a sip of his drink before hunching over and staring into his cup. "It's not your fault."

Morgan huffed a caustic laugh. "Well, yes and no."

"You still don't owe me an explanation," Deacon interrupted quietly. "We don't have to talk about this."

Again, her words stuttered, train of thought derailed. Her parted lips closed, and her gaze moved from his knee to stare out dead ahead. "Maybe I don't _owe_ , but. You... _deserve_ one." She ran a hand over her face, taking a breath. She rested it on her knee, palm up, staring at the jagged scar along the center of her hand. "I told you I was in the military. Two years in training, four years in deployment. Two of my years deployed were simple stuff, in various forts around the world. My last two years of deployment were in Anchorage." She flexed her right hand, eyes unfocusing. "I remember. The day the bombs went off, sitting in the living room with Nate. The news was talking about the weather in Anchorage."

Eventually she shook her head and carried on. "The military isn't a good place for lone wolves. That's a terrible attitude to have, especially when you rely on your comrades to keep each other alive. I guess that's why they switched me to sniper. Don't need friends when you're alone, popping heads from a snowy cliff. But, being in the military, you don't get... you can't _do_ things. You're at the mercy of _everything else_. There's nothing you really have power over. There's this constant feeling of helplessness. There's nothing you can control. It's a waiting game.

"I used to count the days. Make it through each day, cross each one off the list. Make it through six years, you get to go home. I remember sitting in a corner of the trenches, clutching my knees to my chest, doing grounding exercises. But, you know, eventually that stops working. And you start being trapped in your own head, thinking you're going to go insane, or hurt yourself, or someone else, or _something_. So I looked for something to give me any measure of control."

She pulled down the sleeve of her coat, revealing the scarring along her forearm. "Knives helped." Something made her bristle, and she turned her eyes on him, sharp and defensive. "I never wanted to kill myself. I didn't - I didn't want to end it. I never got that weak. I'm not-" She took a steadying break as her voice started to crack. "I just needed some measure of control. I'm not _immune_ to pain, or anything, it still hurts. And I never did it too deep, never wanted to need stitching. I just did it enough to remind me where I was. Then you get up, and you get some bandages, and you wash your knife, and you make sure your superior doesn't know what you're doing."

She laughed without mirth. "I worried that if they found out I was hurting myself, they'd say I was unfit for duty and send me home. And while that might have been a blessing, I still thought... I thought they'd draft Nate if I didn't make it through my deployment. I know it sounds stupid, giving up so much of your life for a single person you might never see again, but, I just... It's what I chose. And I saw it through to the end."

Deacon swallowed. "Is that how you...?" He drew two lines down his face with his fingers, imitating her scars.

Morgan shook her head. "No, no. I never wanted to disfigure myself. That happened in combat." She shrugged. "They offered to fix me all up after I was brought home, after I'd finished my term. Give me a whole new fuckin' skin. I turned them down. Much as I hated what they meant to me, I scarred myself as a... a measure of power, rebelling against the fuckers and their control over me. Getting them to _erase_ what I'd done, would be like erasing the power I'd given myself. Even if that means I'll never really be 'fixed' again."

Deacon nodded. His tongue felt heavy and unresponsive, his throat tight and unwilling to work. He searched his mind for a story that could make this better, some joke that could heal the situation. None came. But he had to say _something_. And before he realized it, the words were tumbling out of his mouth. "I was married once."

 _That_ got Morgan's attention, made her look over her shoulder at him from where she leaned over her knees.

Deacon nodded, staring off into the distance, secure behind his sunglasses. "I know what you mean. When you meet someone, who... fits you, fixes you, just seems to work in all the right ways. Someone you're not really sure you deserve, but who loves you anyway, and understands things about you that even you don't get. It seems weird to give so much up for them, for one person, but... I get it."

Morgan nodded. "Dead?" she asked, blunt but not unkind.

He wanted to nod, but old, almost forgotten pain welled up behind his eyes. "... Yeah." A few more seconds passed. "I killed the people who killed my wife. It's ... a long story."

Morgan spoke gently, half-smiling. "You don't owe me an explanation."

"I-" He cut himself off, cleared his throat, and started again, glancing at her in the corner of his eye. "You deserve one." Deacon took a breath. "Everyone knows I'm a liar. I make no secret of it. But there's ... more reason behind it than you think.

"When I was a kid, a hell of a long time ago, I got in with some bad people. A gang. For kicks we'd terrorize anyone we thought was a synth. And it just got worse and worse, because we kept egging each other on to worse and worse things. It started with just some property damage, graduated to some beatdowns. Then. Inevitably. A lynching." He sounded so weary. "Our leader swore we'd caught a synth, for real this time. I still don't know for sure."

His eyes flickered to Morgan, but she said nothing. Just stared at him.

Deacon went on. "I couldn't take it after that. After seeing someone, strung up, with those... bulging eyes... I left my 'brothers.' Broke all contact. Became a farmer, if you can believe it. Then I found Barbara. And, well. Like you said. Sometimes you'll do anything for a person. I escaped the gang, and we made a living for ourselves. Even started trying to have kids. Then we realized she was a synth."

Morgan didn't blink. "Replacement, or escapee?"

Deacon almost flinched at the coldness of her questions, but stopped himself. He deserved her judgement. "I don't know," he said honestly. "She didn't know, either. But the gang found out somehow. I guess you can imagine how that went down. I don't remember much clearly after that. I know I killed most of them. I must have made a big impression, because the Railroad contacted me shortly after, figured I'd be sympathetic after my wife's death, and ... after what I did."

He swallowed. "They don't know I used to be part of the gang. They don't know what I've done. And if they did? I don't know. Everyone - Tom, Dez, you, even that _asshole_ Carrington - they all _deserve_ to be in the Railroad. I don't. I'm everything wrong with this whole, _fucking_ Commonwealth, and you-" His voice wavered again. " ... You're the only friend I got."

He could feel his eyes welling up, but didn't dare take off his sunglasses, instead hiding behind a hollow laugh. "Yeah, great story, I know. I know what you're thinking. 'Hey, is Deacon, messing with my head? Again?' Maybe. I don't know. But if you believe anything else. You're my friend. Maybe my only one. So... good talk."

Morgan stayed quiet for a few minutes, processing everything he'd said, as he waited with baited breath for the verdict. He could _hear_ what she was going to say, hear the biting, sharp-tongued condemnation. After all she'd lost, and all their time together, he'd betrayed her. He was a liar, a fraud, everything the Railroad worked against, and she-

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

She swallowed. "I'm sorry. That you had to go through that." Deacon stared at her blankly.

Morgan sighed, taking a breath and glancing up at the ceiling. "You-" She cut herself off, sounding frustrated. She began again, softer. "That isn't as bad as you think it is. I know you might not agree, but it doesn't matter. We all make mistakes. You've more than paid yours back. And if it makes any difference, you're the only friend I've got, too. And I- I've lost too many people to give more up. I know it doesn't matter, not really, because we're both too broken to appreciate it, but... I want you to be safe. With me." Her throat bobbed, more tears rising to her eyes. "I couldn't save my husband, or my son. But I'm trying to save the synths. And you're welcome to stay with me as long as you want to."

Deacon still stared. Everything in him, every fiber of his being screaming to force a smile, assure her that he was fine, and then disappear. Possibly fake his own death. This was the most honest he'd been in maybe twenty years, and too honest at that. He was breaking every rule he'd ever set for himself, and by all rights he was long overdue for a new name and face.

And yet. Maybe it was the way she stubbornly refused to let her tears fall, maybe it was that fact that _she'd_ apologized to _him_ , maybe he was just old and tired and so painfully, painfully lonely. Maybe because only one other person in his life had still believed in him after knowing the truth. _Maybe_ , he thought, _he could stick around a little longer_.

He could always run away tomorrow.

"I'm not the hugging type, but." He swallowed, pushing his sunglasses back up on his nose and blinking away the heat behind his eyes. "Good talk." Then, in a very soft murmur: "I appreciate it."

"Good." Morgan ran a hand over her face before standing with a sigh, visibly regaining control of herself. "I'm going to go get dressed," she said, voice rough with emotion. "Be ready when I come out." She grabbed her things, but hesitated mid-step, instead grabbing his wig from the table and holding it out to him.

Deacon offered her a small, very faint smile, and took the wig from her hand, pulling it on over his skull, feeling it settle comfortably into place. "Will do, boss."


	10. Chapter Nine

They didn't intend on staying long, or dwelling on their recent emotional confessions. They left Goodneighbor quickly, stopping only to top off their ammo supplies before heading out.

Morgan seemed re-energized, more clearheaded and focused than she had been in weeks. She declared that the Glowing Sea was their new focus. They needed to get ahold of some suits of Power Armor, and the best weaponry they could find. Their guns suited them well enough, but two high-quality suits would be harder to find.

They looted the biggest raider encampments, where raider bosses often fashioned their own suits of armor over antique power armor frames. It didn't take much to kill two bosses and walk the frames back to Bunker Hill, where they asked Stockton to look after them, as a personal favor. But that left the matter of the armor itself.

Dingy Pre-War stuff wasn't uncommon, if you were brave enough to kill a Mr. Gutsy or two and loot the military trucks they guarded. But they were designed to stop bullets, not radiation. They needed modern armor if they were going to head into the Glowing Sea. Luckily, Joe Savoldi offered them a deal. He knew a guy who could get them the armor pieces they needed, and in return, they'd retrieve a Savoldi family heirloom from some sinkhole up north.

Trouble was, the sinkhole was right near a Deathclaw nest, meaning the few who agreed to go never returned. But, if Morgan and Deacon could come back in one piece, heirloom in hand, Joe would hook them up with a mechanic and a heavy discount. A small price to pay for the size of their project.

You know. So long as they didn't die.

* * *

"I wonder how long it's been since these Deathclaws have eaten a human."

"Sooner rather than later, if you don't shut up."

"But I mean it. Sure, bloatflies are good for cleaning your teeth with, and yao guais are big, but they put up a fight. Mutants aren't very tasty - heard it from a friend - and ghouls are too dry. Radstags are good, but they're skittish and tend to stay out of Deathclaw territory. Humans are tasty, and juicy, and _just_ dumb enough to wander into a Deathclaw nest."

"You're not being very helpful."

"I'm being comedic relief. Easing the tension." Though he kept conversation light, Deacon was on guard, watching their backs and listening for any unusual sounds. He clutched his laser rifle, letting the warmth of its battery steady his hands. "What are we looking for, again?"

"A hat."

"Covered in diamonds, I assume."

"Nope. Just a hat. Belonged to his grandfather, some Minuteman from years ago."

"Ah, Savoldi, you sentimental bastard." Deacon stopped. "Hear that?"

They hadn't heard much of anything until now. They'd crept through the neighborhood surrounding the sinkhole, their skin covered in goosebumps as battered Pre-War houses watched them with baleful eyes. It was quiet. _Too quiet,_ as Deacon gleefully remarked. No radstags patrolled the hills, no bloatflies bobbed clumsily in the air. Not even a lonely ghoul shuffled around its ancestral home.

But as they approached the center of the small town, the sound of rushing water wafted to their ears. Sharing a look, the pair followed the noise, keeping a leery watch for following creatures. The ground beneath their feet loosened and grew moist, squishing under their boots and leaving tangible tracks. Here, a few houses were off-balance, with one side or corner sunk into the ground, or their walls cracked and warped from water damage.

The roaring rapids grew louder, and soon they stopped at the edge of the sinkhole itself. It stretched several stories below them, and at the bottom, the remnants of a large sewage pipe lay broken and exposed. Bits of house jutted out from the dirt, too, hunks of brick and wood still in vague house-like shapes. Squinting, they could each see water pouring from the busted sewer pipe, falling into a broad pit at the very bottom of the sinkhole. Still no sign of a deathclaw.

"I don't like it," Morgan announced.

"What? No," Deacon scoffed, gesturing dismissively. "I love bizarre sinkholes with underground waterfalls and potential deathclaw nests around every corner. It's great."

Morgan nudged his side with the back of her hand. "I'm gonna go down, see if I can't sit on one of those houses, maybe get some cover and a better look at the hole."

"Yes, the... moist, dripping hole." Deacon waggled his eyebrows at her.

She rolled her eyes, hiding a faint almost-smile. "Shut up. And be careful. Don't walk in front of my bullets." Taking careful steps down the thick, muddy slope, Morgan inched her way down. The mud sucked at her boots, forcing her to step lightly or risk losing her boots. Deacon, however, went the opposite way, trekking around the breadth of the sinkhole. Morgan didn't bother pestering him to explain himself. Deacon had a habit of wandering off, then showing up later in a different outfit and a funny story. Most of the time, she trusted him to find his way without killing himself.

She stopped at a building that stuck out about halfway down the sinkhole, with some rocks and debris clustered at the edge that she could use as cover. Still, nothing a deathclaw couldn't tear through. Come to think of it, she couldn't think of something a deathclaw couldn't tear through if it was determined enough.

She peered through the scope of her rifle, turning the small screw on the side of it to increase the magnification. The wreckage of a caravan was strewn along the bottom of the sinkhole, and a few mostly-rotted corpses laid around a handful of footlockers and trunks, some busted open, others not. They looked like they'd been devoured by some kind of animal, but whoever - _whatever_ \- had eaten it was nowhere to be seen.

Morgan frowned. It made no sense. If a deathclaw had dragged its kill down here, this must be its nest. And deathclaws didn't stray too far from the nest. Unless it was out hunting, it should be here, especially if it had young. It wouldn't-

Something moved at the edge of her scope. She looked back, increased the magnification as far as it would go. There, lurking in a shadowed building, a set of golden eyes glimmered, and black-tipped claws pierced the shadows. The beast crept from its nest, hunkering down as if it prepared to pounce. She followed its line of sight, trying to find what it was after.

She gasped.

Based on the mud clinging to his pants and shoes, Deacon must have gotten caught in the muck and slid to the bottom. He talked to himself, flicking mud off of his weapon and looking up around him, nodding at the different broken buildings. In the shadows, the deathclaw moved with a deadly silence, its heavy paws unnaturally agile and quiet.

"Deacon," she hissed, dropping one hand from her rifle and flailing it above her head, trying to grab his attention without alerting the creature. "Deacon you fucking _shit_ , you _piece of fucking shit_. Look at me, I'm begging you." Deacon walked to one of the footlockers, nudging it open with his toe. "Deacon, please. Come on. You can't be this fuckin' dumb. Please." The deathclaw crept closer.

Morgan grit her teeth. " _Deacon, you unbelievable fuck_!" Both man and monster jerked their heads up, staring at the woman above them. " _There's a fucking deathclaw_!"

Deacon froze. Then, slowly, he turned, and their eyes met. Human to deathclaw, dark shades versus shiny gold. The moment lasted maybe a second, maybe an eternity. Then the beast released a guttural, terrifying roar, and Deacon stumbled back, firing his rifle as fast as he could. It lunged forward, claws raised, and leapt from its hiding place to swing a heavy paw at Deacon's chest. Morgan heard his cry over the sounds of gunfire, causing a cold rush of panic that gave her goosebumps.

Then, there it was. Standing proud at ten feet tall, a mix of leather and scales and nightmares. Two dark, demonic-esque horns jutted out from the sides of its head, and a mish-mash of terrifying teeth filled its jaw. A weighty tail swished at its rear, flicking like a cat on the hunt. It loomed over Deacon like a vision of hell, murder in its eyes.

Morgan's gaze sharpened, and her mind went quiet. The military gave her many things, most of them terrible. But, at least in this instance, its training paid off. She hunkered down and fired like a machine, loading and reloading and scouting weak spots on the creature. Deacon kept point - an uncomfortable position for him, but he was fast enough to dodge when the creature got too close. But she could see the effort weighing at him, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. He wouldn't be able to keep it up forever.

Her bullets pierced the beast's hide, but she couldn't be certain of the depth of penetration. She saw Deacon's gun jam, saw him flail and curse and eventually chuck it aside, pulling out his laser pistol instead. Morgan's shoulder was starting to bruise from her rifle's recoil, the stock jamming into the crook of her arm with every shot. Her hands grew stiff, sore from the effort of holding her gun so still, of making her shots so precise for so long.

But the deathclaw switched tactics. It couldn't fend off two adversaries at once, avoiding Morgan's attack while also pummelling Deacon. So it focused its energy on him, pinning him against the side of the sinkhole with fast, deadly swings. His space to dodge narrowed, as did his margin for error. Soon, they went below Morgan's ledge, beyond where she could see. She cursed and picked up her weapon, vaulting over her cover and hitting the mud with a thump.

She tore down the side of the sinkhole, trying not to trip or stumble as she fired into the deathclaw's head and chest, hoping to fend it off long enough for Deacon to get away. But it raised one meaty paw, thick blood oozing from the wounds covering its body, and preparing to deliver the finishing blow. She failed, she tripped, she couldn't get there fast enough, and her world stopped as the deathclaw readied its strike.

Then it let out the worst howl yet, rattling her eardrums and making her freeze in terror. The beast stumbled, and crumpled, falling backwards and away from Deacon, hitting the ground with a heavy landing. Morgan took the moment to slide all the way to the ground, everything below her waist covered in mud, her heart pounding in her chest. "Deacon?"

And there he was, pinned against the side of the sinkhole, hunched over with one arm curled around his torso. In his free hand, he held his laser pistol, the barrel still steaming. Morgan jerked towards him, but stopped herself, running to the deathclaw and pulling out her shotgun, levelling its barrel against the side of the creature's skull. A deep, satisfying sound rang out, and the deathclaw's skull crumpled, splattering dark red guts onto the mud.

 _Then_ she ran to Deacon. "Are you okay?" Her brow creased in worry, sheathing her shothun and pulling out a bulky medkit. "You could have been killed," she snapped. "What the _fuck_ were you thinking?"

"I thought-"

"You _thought_." She pushed his shirt up, revealing three thick, dark red lines of blood where the deathclaw had torn through his armor and gouged his flesh. Deacon winced as the stimpack jabbed his sternum, but the numbing antiseptic flooded his bloodstream and his skin and bone healed smooth. "How the hell did you kill it? With a _laser pistol_? How?"

"Well, I-"

"And now I have to get you a whole new fuckin' chestpiece. Do you know how expensive combat armor is? Do you know? Why did you even come down here in the first place? Why didn't you just follow me onto the ledge? Why the _fuck_ , Deacon?" She flailed, about to jab an accusing finger into his chest before thinking better of it. She exhaled, her shoulders slumping. She raised her head to meet his eyes, brow furrowed in a mix of concern and confusion. "Are you okay?" she asked, calmer.

Deacon gave her a weak shrug of his shoulders, taking slow breaths to test the limits of the newly-healed skin on his torso. "I mean, my underwear's in a shit state, but otherwise."

Morgan stared at him, her expression frozen. After a few seconds, she stood and turned away, throwing up her hands. "I swear to Christ, Deacon. You're going to give me a heart attack." She ran her hands over her face, staring helplessly at the sky.

Deacon chuckled and rose to his feet, putting his chestpiece back on and checking how much ammo he had left. "Can I have your stuff after you croak?" he asked, and walked over to nose through the deceased caravan's belongings.

"You can fuck off, is what you can do," Morgan snorted. She shook her head and let him change the topic, taking deep breaths to slow her heartrate. "All the locks busted?"

Deacon nudged open one footlocker with his foot. A few broken needles and some dirty clothes fell out. "Yep. Some stuff's worth taking, but most of it's worthless." He lifted a dirty plaid skirt from the open footlocker. "Morgan, if I wear this, is it a skirt, or a kilt?" He pressed it to his hips, as if seeing if it'd fit.

Morgan ignored him and approached the lip of the sinkhole, peering down into its depths. She grabbed a liquor bottle from a broken crate and tossed it in, waiting for the splash. It never came. She sighed. "We're going to have to go down there."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Get your rope, Deacon, and tie it to mine." Morgan lifted a coil of rope from her pack, searching for the nearest solid thing to tie one end to.

"Gee, a little direct, don't you think?" Pulling the rope from his bag, Deacon made a sweeping gesture. "I'm a man of the road, Fix. The world's my oyster. I don't like being tied down. I have to explore, have to run, have to see what the Commonwealth has to offer before thinking about things like that."

Morgan stopped, turning to her companion and arching an eyebrow. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Deacon waggled his rope. "You asked me to tie the knot with you."

Morgan blinked, and shook her head. "I swear to God."

The man grinned and finally made himself useful, tying their respective ropes together. Once one end was secure, they stood together at the rim of the sinkhole. The sound of the waterfall was almost overwhelming when they stood this close, the roaring thunder of the water drowning out everything else.

Morgan tied the free end of the rope around her middle. "I'll go first!" she shouted, fighting to be heard above the noise. "I tug once, follow me down. I tug twice, pull me up!"

"Got it!" Deacon took hold of the rope, making sure the knot was secure, and saluted her as she descended into the hole.

The water overwhelmed her senses at first. The force of it struck her like a punch to the chest, and the cold soaked through her clothes and made her shiver. Darkness clouded her gaze, and for a moment she was terrified she couldn't breathe. Then, she took a moment, breathing deeply and holding tight to the rope, adjusting to the dark and cold.

She couldn't see her hands in front of her face or hear her own breathing, but she felt the damp rope under her hands, felt the bottoms of her boots braced against the slippery wall. If she lifted her head, she could see the ever-dimming light of the surface above her. She swallowed, and focused on climbing down, fumbling with her Pip-Boy to get some small amount of light.

Eventually, the wall fell away from her feet and she hit down to the floor with a gasp, coughing and sputtering as the rope gripped tight around her stomach. Water sloshed around her boots, and waving her forearm around made her green Pip-Boy light shine off some slick cave walls. No deathclaws visible. Yet.

"Deacon!" she called, though she questioned if he could hear her. She tugged once on the rope, hoping he'd get the hint. A few moments later, his voice traveled down the passage, unintelligible but Deacon nonetheless. Morgan untied herself from the rope and trudged out of the water, feeling a shiver go down her spine. "I better not get pneumonia," she grumbled.

She kicked a radroach off the cave floor, the insect releasing a pained squeal as it splashed into the water. A few seconds later, Deacon made a similar noise of terror when his feet slipped off the wall and he hit the water pool, as she had. "Alright?" Morgan called, amused.

"Peachy," he gasped, wincing when she shone the Pip-Boy light on his face.

"Come on." She walked to the edge of the water pool, kneeling and extending a hand to help him up. "I think I found what we're looking for."

Through a few winding tunnels, they discovered a raised platform with a trickle of sunlight landing on its surface, the light falling through some cracks in the cave walls high above them. A single skeleton lay on the platform, clad in some mold-rotten clothes. A hat sat on his head, something glinting on the side of it.

Morgan hopped onto the rocky platform, kneeling to examine the object on the skeleton's hat. It was a pin, bearing what looked like an older version of the Minuteman symbol. "Looks like our guy," she said, and gingerly plucked the hat off the skull. She blew a bit of dust off it, grimacing at the feel of the water-warped leather.

"Power Armor, here we come," Deacon remarked, wringing water out of his pant leg. "So, how do we get out?"

A beat passed. "Fuck."

* * *

With some work, they escaped the sinkhole, Savoldi's hat in hand and their clothes soaked through. They arrived at Bunker Hill late that afternoon, slapping the worn hat on the bar counter and selling off their meager loot for some extra caps.

As the sun set, Morgan found herself hunched over Savoldi's bar while Deacon mingled with the caravaneers, dressed in some new clothes and an old alias. He joked and told stories with them, slyly asking just the right questions to get more information than your usual gossip. They'd already gotten some intel from Stockton to take back to HQ later, but Deacon had survived a deathclaw attack and was feeling saucy.

Savoldi arranged for them to start work on the armor suits in the morning, after getting some rest. Morgan swirled a fingertip around the delicate rim of her soda bottle, watching the carbonation bubble inside the dusty glass. "You all get back in one piece?" Savoldi asked, creeping down the bar like he wanted to strike up a conversation.

Morgan nodded. "Wasn't so hard. Got a bit soaked, but. A little cold water never hurt anyone." A few droplets of water dripped from her hair onto the counter surface. Savoldi calmly slid his rag over and mopped them up.

"And that story your boy's telling? About the fistfight with the deathclaw?"

Morgan huffed a brief laugh, her lips turning up in a wry, lop-sided smile. "Wasn't so hard. A little deathclaw mauling never hurt anyone." She took a sip of her cola, but her expression changed by the time the glass hit the bar again. "He's not my 'boy,'" she said, brow furrowed in defensiveness.

Savoldi set down his rag, resting his elbows on the countertop and raising his hands. "Meant no offense by it. I didn't mean to assume."

Morgan let it go, forcing herself to relax and stare into her bottle again. There was no reason for that phrase to bother her as much as it did. "Well, you know what they say about assuming."

"Makes an ass out of you and me." Savoldi drummed his fingers on the bar. "I was just sayin'. He doesn't seem like the kinda man to be a real... fighter type, you know. Not like yourself," he said, nodding at her. Behind her, Morgan heard Deacon describing how it felt to tear a deathclaw's heart from its chest. He gesticulated to a rapt, slightly-inebriated audience.

"He's a real mystery," she agreed, with a snort.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," the barman said with a shrug. "There's always more to people than you think. In my line of work, people tell you things. I don't judge another man's secrets, or problems. What's that Old World saying? Never trust a book by its... uh..."

"Never judge a book by its cover," Morgan said, taking another sip.

"That one," he agreed, snapping his fingers. "Yep. People'll always surprise you." He chuckled, and thankfully another patron came up to the bar, drawing his attention away from her.

Morgan brooded, her good mood dissipating she mused on what Savoldi had said. She hadn't liked him calling Deacon her "boy." That seemed too possessive, too… something. Besides, it's not like Deacon would approve of the title, anyhow. He wouldn't like the insinuation that he belonged to anybody. He was too much of a liar, too bad at emotional intimacy.

From behind her, a wave of laughter struck her ears. Mixed in with the other voices was Deacon's, beginning another story, one she hadn't heard. She looked over her shoulder, watching him use some nearby junk as props for his epic tale.

He wasn't a liar, not really. No, Deacon was a storyteller. All the things he'd told her meant something, lies or not. Tricks and jokes and stories, all designed to see if she was trustworthy, to find out what she believed, to see if she was a good person or not. Seeing as she didn't know that herself, Morgan wondered what Deacon thought of her. Still, he'd stuck around this long, he couldn't hate her. They'd been through and seen so much. Told each other their darkest secrets.

It occurred to her that _she_ trusted _him_ over near anyone else in the Commonwealth. Somehow she trusted this human paradox - this man, who was honest about being deceptive. She'd grown fond of him. She hid smiles at his jokes, she worried about him getting hurt. She felt odd when he wasn't at her back, trailing her footsteps or hiding in the brush just beside her.

Goddamnit, he was her _boy_.

"Having a nice brood, boss?" Morgan jumped as Deacon slid into the seat beside her. "That cola's gonna go flat if you keep staring into it." His faint grin and the gleam of his sunglasses calmed her nerves, making her more relaxed than she expected to be. She wasn't sure how she felt about his effect on her.

Morgan stared at him for a moment. Maybe this wasn't a bad thing. She'd come a long way since those first nightmare-ridden days when she entered the Commonwealth alone. Since killing Kellogg, she'd been almost… at peace. She'd lost her husband, her baby, everything she'd ever held dear. But now she'd found a fresh beginning. Found purpose, in helping the Railroad, saving synths and doing odd jobs with Deacon at her side. Maybe- Maybe given time, she could-

Her thoughts trailed off, and a wave of guilt washed over her, an ocean of mourning and memories washing away any thoughts of a happy future. Sean was still in the Institute. And she still owed it to Nate to try and find their baby. She couldn't _start over._ The last time she dared to hope for a happy ending, the world was obliterated in nuclear fire. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

"Morgan?"

"I'm fine," she stated, looking away. She'd stared at him too long, let him read her too clearly. She didn't want him to ask her, to try to comfort her. Friends, partners, people heading in the same direction - whatever they were, she didn't have the strength to think about it right now. She had to do her job. Had to work. Had to do something to take her mind off things. "I'm gonna go get started on the Power Armor," she said, standing from her barstool.

His smile faded, replaced by a look of vague confusion. "Savoldi-"

"Doesn't have all the parts yet. It's fine. I'll work on what he's got." She threw a handful of caps on the bar and knocked back the last of her soda. "Entertain yourself. Don't interrupt me."

Deacon stared after her as she walked away. What an odd mood change, especially after being so chipper - chipper for her, at least - after leaving the sinkhole. There'd been something in her eyes, though, something he wasn't quite sure how to interpret. But then that light had died, leaving her hard and cold, and she was closed off to him again. Deacon sighed, and ordered another beer.


	11. Chapter Ten

Morgan's mood showed no signs of going away anytime soon, so Deacon did his best to hold her together. He brought her the tools and materials she needed as she hammered away on their armor suits. Made sure she ate by leaving trays of food for her in the mornings and evenings. He stayed out of sight when he could, and kept busybodies out of her workshop.

He wanted to ask what set her off, what made her turn cold like this, but didn't dare. It's not that he feared her anger, but he knew that prodding would only push her further away. Giving her space meant giving her to chance to come back to him on her terms. And she always did, just… sometimes later rather than sooner.

She woke him one morning by tossing a helmet into his bed, landing on his chest with a thump. He jerked awake, flailing and blinking blearily. "We're going," she informed him, and left.

Deacon shook his head and ran a comb through his wig, splashing some water on his face before leaving the bunkhouse and joining her in the yard. Standing outside the workshop were two sets of shiny new power armor, kited out with the finest gear and equipment. "Nice," he said, looking them up and down with a yawn. "You do all this yourself, boss?"

Morgan shrugged, eyes dull. She pointed him to one of the suits and climbed into the other, the internal skeleton stretching and conforming around her armor and clothes. Deacon considered making a smart remark - armor suits were not the most stealthy way to get around - but thought better of it. He climbed inside just as Morgan secured her pack over her power armor, making use of some modified straps to fit it over her much larger frame.

Deacon took his pack and the straps Morgan handed him, fumbling with his belongings for a few minutes. "Good?" he asked, spreading his arms proudly. Morgan didn't speak, just huffed a sigh and stepped forward to adjust the straps on his bag. _Like a woman adjusting her husband's tie_ , he mused, then quickly put that thought out of his head.

And so they marched out of Bunker Hill. An uneasy silence surrounded them as they walked along the coast, avoiding the city in an attempt to avoid trouble. They passed docks and old buildings, seaside factories and sewer pipes, and many clusters of Mirelurk eggs buried in the sand. Morgan kept quiet. She was stoic. Pensive. He couldn't make out her body language, and her helmet hid her facial expressions, but he could read through her silence. If she was mad or distrustful, she'd talk back to him, or look over her shoulder suspiciously as he followed her. But now, she just seemed… quiet.

At some point, she stopped, staring at something far ahead of them. "Boss?" he asked. His power armor hissed and seethed as he stomped across the sand to stand beside her. "Do you-"

"Hush." She raised one heavy arm to point out at one of the many docks lining the coast. "Look."

Deacon followed her line of sight, squinting and trying to make it out. His gaze focused on a small figure, leaning over the railing at the end of the pier. "A person?"

"Just one."

"I'm surprised they're not hiding from the gunfire."

Morgan holstered her weapon, and headed towards the dock. "I want to see." She paused, as if she wanted to say more, but changed her mind and kept going.

Deacon sighed, his breath scratching the helmet speakers. "If you say so, boss."

Deep footprints followed them along the beach, and grains of sand trailed them across the concrete road as they approached the dock. Morgan hesitated, then pulled off her helmet, exposing her face and the mass of her hair. Deacon did the same, fishing out his sunglasses from his pack and sliding them over his nose. "Hello?" Morgan called out, walking carefully towards the pier. "We're not here to hurt anyone."

They halted at the sound of rapid footsteps across aged wood, dashing across the dock into the small shack sitting along the railing. A door slammed, and shut, and a rusted window of the shack creaked open. A thin rifle barrel poked through. "We don't have anything you want," said the voice of a young boy. Despite the warning words, his tone made it sound more like a pleasant greeting.

Deacon examined Morgan in the corner of his eye. She was surprised. Then she turned soft, almost gentle, and reassuring. "We're not here to take anything," she said, tapping her blank breastplate with one armored finger. "See? Not Brotherhood or raiders. We're just here to see if you're okay."

The rifle barrel lowered. "Did my dad send you?" the voice asked, sounding hopeful.

"No sir," Morgan replied, looking back to the rifle. "We're just passing through. Saw you standing out, alone, by the pier."

"Oh." The voice sounded disappointed. "Well, d'ya wanna come in?"

The pair of agents glanced at each other. Then, Morgan turned back to the shack, and spoke. "Yes, we would. Thank you." She stepped out of her armor and went inside, Deacon at her heels.

The house smelled vaguely of sea salt and wood rot. The ocean breeze spattered salt spray against the windows. Three half-empty boxes of Sugar Bombs sat on a well-worn table. Aged posters of comic book heroes perched on the walls, half-peeling off. Vintage Nuka-Cola toy trucks sat at the foot of a ratty mattress pushed into the corner, and a lone hot plate sat on a metal shelf, connected to a small hand-crank generator that looked like it could barely boil water.

Bearing a rifle and an inquisitive expression was the boy, wearing a ratty shirt, some shorts, and flipflops made from leather and string. Dark red hair hung in a thick mop over his head, knotted and unbrushed. A smattering of freckles covered the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and his blue eyes examined them curiously. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," Morgan said. The corner of her mouth quirked up in a brief half-smile. She tilted her head aside. "What's your name?"

"Donny."

"I'm Morgan," she said, raising a hand to her chest, then pointing at the man beside her. "This is my friend."

"Name's Deacon," he announced, with a pleasant smile. "I'm the cool one."

Donny gave them a childish, gap-toothed grin. "Nice to meetcha." He took a breath and rested his rifle on the floor, leaning against it. It would have looked comical, this scrawny kid handling a weapon like he'd done so all his life. Except, he probably had. That took a bit of the fun out of it. "So, what're you doin' here?"

"Doing some work," Morgan answered cryptically. "We were on our way to another job when we saw you. Wanted to know what someone was doing by themselves, so close to the city." She paused and pressed her lips together. "Are your parents around?"

Donny shook his head. "No ma'am. My dad disappeared a while ago, and I never knew my mom." He shrugged, looking down and picking at his fingernails. "Was hopin' maybe my dad sent you."

From behind her, Deacon saw Morgan's shoulders slump, the way her voice softened into a gentleness he'd never heard from her before. "I'm so sorry."

Donny shrugged, a neutral expression on his face. "It's not so bad. My dad taught me how to clean the meat off'a dead Lurks. I know how to fish, and stuff like that. And nobody comes this close to the coast, 'cause all the good stuff is deeper in the city. I go out occasionally and get stuff to eat from the old marts when the ghouls get distracted by all the fighting."

"You eat comic books?" Deacon asked, glancing at one of the small piles of books stacked around the mattress.

Donny smiled with a mouthful of crooked, unbrushed teeth. "Naw. Those're for me."

Most of the boy mirrored his teeth. His clothes were tattered, hair unkempt, his limbs gangly and his skin sallow. He had a surprisingly chipper attitude for an orphan living by himself, far from any kind of family. Then again, there were a number of child-only settlements scattered around the wasteland. Sometimes adults were more of a threat than a benefit. But, this kid didn't have anybody. If he got sick, or injured, or something else happened…

Morgan nodded, then glanced at the table and chairs pressed against the wall. "Mind if we sit down?" Donny shook his head, and they all sat down. The agents took the two chairs posed beside the well-worn table, its surface covered by cereal boxes and dirty dishes. The boy pulled over a stained bucket, turning it over so he could sit on the flat bottom. "So you're out here all alone?" Morgan continued. "There's no one else you can go to? No relatives?"

"I don't think so," the boy responded, resting his hands between his legs on the surface of the bucket. He rocked back and forth, tapping his feet against the floor. "Nobody's really come and bothered me before. It... does get kinda lonely out here, I guess. Dad said I had a cousin in Diamond City, but I've never been up there - least, not since I was a baby. I don't think I'd be able to get there on my own, even if I wanted to."

Morgan nodded, slowly. She licked her lips. "I know you don't know us very well," she began, soft, "but we help people. We might be able to get you… somewhere safer. We could take you to Diamond City, see if you've got some relatives. Somewhere you don't have to worry about being hungry or being alone. Maybe you could track down your dad."

Donny's brow furrowed. "How'm I s'posed to know if I can trust you?"

"Well, you don't. But I'm not trying to force you into anything. And we've been very polite, and haven't tried to take anything or hurt you. Like I said - we'd help people. And I'd feel bad if I left you here all alone, and something bad happened to you. The wasteland is a scary place."

The boy's frown deepened. "And I'd be able to bring some of my stuff?" he asked. "And it's not anything… _weird_?"

Morgan bit back a smile. "No. It's not anything weird. I promise. My friend and I have some business we need to get to. So, we'd drop you off somewhere safe, where good people can look after you and make sure you're fed. Then, we'd come back, get you, and take you to Diamond City." She paused. "You can say no, if you want to. We might come back and check on you, but you don't have to come with us."

Donny thought on this for a few moments longer. Something weighed at him, something that knitted his young brows together and made his fingers grip tighter onto the bottom of his bucket. "Well, I can't go anywhere by myself," he admitted, quietly. "And I don't know if I wanna be here forever." He looked out the window, listening to the roar of the ocean. He looked pensive, perhaps a bit unsure, or frightened. But he shook it off with a shake of his head, and stood up, a suddenly decisive look about him. "Lemme get my stuff - _and_ my gun, just in case you guys try to pull anything."

This time, Morgan couldn't help her smile. A real one, where her eyes crinkled up at the edges, her scars lightened, her expression softened. "Sure. Take whatever time you need."

The agents rose from their seats and went outside, waiting at the end of the dock for Donny to be ready. Deacon hesitated, unwilling to ruin Morgan's new mood, but itching to ask a question. He released a breath, and fumbled through his pockets for a cigarette. "Got a light?"

Morgan plucked a rusted lighter from her pocket and clicked it open, holding out the flame without a word. She still seemed soft and pleasant. Nicer than maybe he'd ever seen her. Deacon lit the cigarette and leaned back, sucking in a deep breath and exhaling spicy wisps of smoke up into the cool Commonwealth air. "Where are we gonna take him?"

"HQ. Just for a little while," she added, when he jerked in surprise. "Let him sleep in the church or a back room. Tom's security measures will keep him safe. He doesn't need to know who we work for. And it's just be long enough for us to go to the Glowing Sea and come back. We'll need to drop by HQ anyway, on our way back, if this lead turns out to have some weight behind it."

Deacon looked concerned, but exhaled again and reluctantly relaxed. He took another breath off his cigarette. "Des might not approve."

And, in a blink, Morgan was angry again."Well, fuck her. He's a kid. I can't just- I can't just _leave_ him, Deacon." She turned to look at him, her gaze running up his lips and over his sunglasses, searching for some kind of reaction, some kind of reassurance.

"I know, Morgan." He gently laid his hand on her bicep, cigarette dangling from his other hand. "I know. I'm not saying you're wrong. I just hope we get lucky and this works out for us, is all."

Morgan sighed, her shoulders loosening. There was something comforting in the way she relaxed under his touch, the way she looked to him for his opinion. Deacon let his hand rest against her for a moment, maybe two, before letting it fall away and slip into his pocket.

A few moments later, Donny emerged from the shack with a worn sack over one shoulder, full to bursting, and his rifle clutched in his right hand. "I'm ready," he announced. "I'm coming with you. And if either of you try to sell me into slavery or touch my private parts, I'm gonna shoot you."

Morgan barked a sharp laugh, catching Deacon off-guard. "I promise we won't do either of those. Come on." She turned and strapped into her power armor, giving Donny a salute before walking along the coast with heavy steps. Donny jogged after her, his bag clanking loudly.

Deacon stared after them for a moment, still baffled at Morgan's laugh. He watched her slow her steps to let Donny walk alongside her. Something panged in his chest, something old and unfamiliar. Like a memory, prickling at the back of his skull, but deeper, plucking at his heartstrings.

Deacon shook his head, climbed into his power armor and walked after them.

* * *

They made quick work of the coastline, avoiding the Lurks and the ghouls enough to make it to the front entrance of the church. Morgan pressed her fingers to Donny's upper back, gently bringing him into the dark and battered building alongside her. But the trio froze when the low groan of ghouls wafted to their ears. Morgan and Deacon fell to their knees with a faint hydraulic hiss, Donny stumbling down with them, eyes wide as saucers.

"New herd," Morgan murmured, scanning the inside of the church. The dim green glow of a Glowing One glimmered off the wall from behind a pew.

"Back entrance?" Deacon offered.

Morgan frowned, her brow knitting together, considering their options. Deacon could hypothesize her train of thought; they couldn't leave Donny in the church, now, too much danger until the cluster of ghouls migrated elsewhere. They could kill the ghouls, but Des liked having them around as added security. Or they could take Donny in the back entrance and keep him in HQ itself. It'd be safer for him there, but Des would definitely consider that a breach of security.

Morgan's lips tightened, and Deacon sighed. She was _really_ gonna piss Des off. "Go back," she urged, and the three went back out the main entrance.

"What're we gonna do?" Donny asked, holding onto his rifle with a white-knuckled grip. "Are we gonna kill 'em?"

"No. We're going in the back way." She made as if to head around the back, then stopped, fixing Donny with an intense look. "Donny, you must promise not to tell anyone what you see in here. There are dangerous people out there who might listen and then hurt us, and stop us from keeping people safe. Do you understand?"

Donny's eyes widened further. "Yes'm."

"And you won't tell anyone?"

"Promise, ma'am." He pressed his right hand to the left side of his chest, looking very solemn.

"Good." Morgan seemed satisfied, and they continued on. Morgan input the latest password into the back entrance, and sighed when the terminal dinged red, the faint hum of the security turrets switching on. "Tom, it's me," she said, recovering the microphone hidden under the keyboard and speaking into it. "I'm here to drop off a package."

A few moments passed, Donny half-hiding behind Deacon's side, before the red light on the terminal flickered off and the turrets went back into sleep mode. The door unlocked and swung open, allowed the three of them inside before closing again. After they slogged through the escape tunnel, they emerged in the dusty brick tunnels of HQ, boots and pants wet from the flooded area.

Tom hovered nervously near the doorway, ambushing them as soon as they walked through. "You almost got my security riled up, man," he chided. "Why didn't you come in the front entrance and ask for the new password?"

Morgan pulled off her power armor helmet, sucking in fresh air and wiping hair back from her face. "Ghouls."

"Ghouls? Since when has that stopped you heavies? You run out of ammo or- _oh_." His train of thought skidded to a halt when he caught sight of Donny, peering out from around Deacon's side. " _Oh man_. Des is _not_ gonna be happy."

"Des can suck a cock," Morgan said, through gritted teeth. "Where is she, by the way?"

"Giving Glory a 'mission,'" Carrington informed them, rolling his desk chair around a corner and exaggerating the air quotes with his fingers. He rolled his eyes and went back to work.

"Well, they'll just have to continue their conversation later." Morgan deposited her armor in an empty corner, dropping her helmet and bag of gear beside it as Deacon did the same. "Watch Donny," she ordered, and marched into Des's office, pushing back the curtain. "Des-"

She stopped just in front of the doorway, falling silent in sight of the pair. Glory and Desdemona were pressed together beside one of the desks, Desdemona undoing Glory's jacket, Glory's hands creeping up Desdemona's shirt and exposing her midriff. The two jerked away from each other at Morgan's entrance. "Fixer," Desdemona said, clearing her throat and hurriedly smoothing out her shirt. "We weren't expecting you so soon. Did-"

"I'm dropping off a package," Morgan interrupted. "I need your promise you'll look after it."

Desdemona arched an eyebrow, the gravity of leadership returning to her. "Glory, can you-?" The other woman nodded, clearing her throat and avoiding eye contact. Desdemona gestured to a nearby chair, and Morgan sat down as Glory fled. "We accept all packages," Des said, once her lover disappeared. "What makes this one special?"

"It's... human."

Desdemona's expression darkened. "No."

"Too late. He's in HQ now. I brought him in with Deacon."

Desdemona pushed back off the desk, eyes sparking with anger. "How _dare_ you-"

"It's a _boy_ , Des. That's all. I found him alone on a pier south of here. No family. No friends. Scraping by. I couldn't just leave him there, Des."

"No, instead you brought him here." The other woman glowered, crossing her arms. "Without my permission, without warning, _after_ you told us you were leaving to go to the Glowing Sea. To find valuable information on the Institute. Instead, you bring us this liability."

"I bring you a _child_ ," Morgan snapped, rising from her seat. "We help people, don't we? That's our whole fucking point. We help people when they have no one else to turn to. That's our job. And as I understand it that includes - or _should_ include - children two meals away from getting fever and dying."

"We have limited resources, Fixer. We can't help every orphan that falls on our doorstep. If we tried to help every child in the Commonwealth that needed it, we'd be out of business in two days. We're just trying to help _synths_ and we're struggling to get by. If you think-"

"I'm not asking you to help _every_ child in the wasteland. I'm asking you to help this one. That's all. I'm not gonna bring every brat I find. I might help every one I find, but believe me, I won't bring them around here ever fuckin' again. If things were any different I'd handle this on my own, but I can't, and if I'm working for you then you better goddamn have my back when I ask. You want me to drop him off at Goodneighbor, full of druggies and creeps? Bunker Hill, where they deal with raiders and hire any bastard as a guard? Or a settlement, with barely enough security to warrant a well and a single tato plant? Or how about Diamond City, where there's already orphans and broken families and struggling-"

"I get your point." Desdemona raised a hand to stop the tirade. She pressed her lips together before exhaling a sigh through her nose. "Fine. He stays here. You go to the Glowing Sea, you find the intel, and get what we both need. Then you come back here and move him somewhere else. He's not a _synth_ , Fixer. Do you realize what would happen if he told someone about-"

"Yes, I do. And I don't give a shit." Morgan stepped away, heading towards the entrance of Des's office. "We have an agreement, that's all I care about. You feed him, clothe him, keep him from dying, and I'll come back for him."

Morgan made it to the doorway before Des's voice stopped her. "Fixer, I don't enforce this often, but if you want us to have your back, we need you to have ours. I need to know that you respect my authority and our mission."

The veteran turned to face the alpha, gray-blue eyes sharp and intense. "I respect _Deacon_ ," she snapped, sharp and cutting. "I respect the idea of helping people who need it. I _don't_ respect being obsessed with synths because you're _sleeping_ with one."

" _Fixer_ -"

Morgan shoved aside the curtain and stepped out into HQ. The others agents hunched over their desks, avoiding eye contact and pretending they hadn't heard everything. Glory stared sullenly into a magazine in the corner. But Deacon and Donny sat on the steps near the front entrance, playing cards as Deacon spoke loudly, telling some dramatic story. Morgan softened. Deacon had made sure to keep the kid as far away from the argument as possible.

She walked over just as Deacon let out a melodramatic groan and set down his cards, Donny throwing his hands up with a grin. "I won!" the boy announced, facing Morgan with a bright smile.

Morgan raised her eyebrows. "Did you? And against the card shark himself. How lucky." She glanced at Deacon, and caught him pulling cards from his sleeves and shuffling them back into the deck. Donny didn't notice. "Well, I'm afraid we have to go now, Donny."

Donny's shoulder's slumped, eyes widening pitifully. "Are you sure? We just got here." He glanced at the room, to the strangers filling it. He seemed unwilling to be abandoned, and Morgan couldn't blame him.

"I'm sorry," she sighed, kneeling down to be on his level. "But the sooner we leave, the sooner I - _we_ \- can come back for you. Take you to Diamond City. Where you'll be safe." She hesitated, then pressed her hand to his cheek, feeling the greasy strands of his hair under her palm, the dirt rubbed into his skin from too many unwashed days. "You'll be safe here. I promise. We shouldn't be long." She bit her lip. "And if anything happens, I want you to ask to be sent to Bunker Hill. Find a man named Stockton, and tell him Fixer sent you. Tell him to get you somewhere safe. Understand?"

Donny nodded. "I understand."

Morgan swallowed and took her hand away. "Good. One of the mattresses in the back room is yours. Ask Drummer Boy to show you around if you need anything."

"Okay." Donny watched as they stepped into their power armor and reclaimed their belongings, strapping their bags and weapons into place. He waved back as they trudged through the exit passage, disappearing from sight as they turned around a corner and marched out into the Commonwealth.

Morgan suddenly felt very weary, and it wasn't the armor weighing her down. "Morgan?" Deacon prodded, his helmet's speakers sparking with static.

The woman shook her head. "I'm fine. Just…" She took a breath. "I'm fine. Let's go."


	12. Chapter Eleven

"Ready?"

Static rippled through the air, thunder rumbling the clouds as thin green lightning bolts struck across the landscape of the Glowing Sea. A green mist hung over everything, tinting their vision and clouding the rugged expanse before them. The trees had turned to stumps, black-burnt carcasses twisted and deformed from two hundred years of storms. The grass melted away under their feet, leaving them to trudge across barren dirt with heavy steps, the deep imprints of their armored feet trailing along behind them. There they stood, poised on the rim of the Sea itself, feeling the dull hum of the storm rattle against their armor, hearing the faint tick-tick-tick of Morgan's geiger counter. Somewhere in that green-glowing fog waited Virgil, and the knowledge that would define their future.

 _Everyone's future._

"Morgan," Deacon whined. "I have a wedgie."

Morgan rolled her eyes. "Seriously? Seriously, Deacon? This is the most important thing we've ever done, and you take the moment to complain to me about how you can't wrangle your own ass?"

Deacon gave her a weak shrug of his armored shoulders. "A wedgie's a wedgie, boss. It's serious business." With that, he started rocking back and forth, trying to unstick his clothes from his backside in the limited confines of his armor suit.

Morgan stared at him as he began pelvic-thrusting against the air. "And with that, I guess we're off. Thank you for that, Deacon. Thanks _so much_."

"Anytime."

The foreboding scene stretched out before them, seeming to grow longer and broader with each step they took. The ground sloped down into a valley, the rolling hills of Pre-War Boston now reduced to a flat plain of lifeless dirt, parted by glowing pools and rivers of orange-gold irradiated fluid. The pair hunkered down and walked slowly, glad for green fog that shielded them from detection, but frustrated as they fought to find their way through it.

Morgan stood upright and tapped the side of her helmet, switching on the tactical magnification and peering out across the stormy wastes. "Deathclaws," she said, her voice crackling through the speakers. Thunder rolled across the clouds ominously above her. "Radscorpions. Ghouls near the fallen buildings." She tapped her helmet again, then once more, frustrated. "Hard to see anything out here."

"That's the Glowing Sea for you." Deacon resisted the urge to fidget, his armor suit lacking the fine motor skills to let him rock back and forth on the balls of his feet, or play with his hands. "Do you have any idea where this guy is?"

"No clue. But he's here." She sighed and lowered her hand, the inside of her helmet clicking as the magnifying lenses turned off. "That's all we know." She turned to her companion, prompting him to fall still. "Deacon. Say you were a slippery bastard, trying to hide from something."

"Already there, boss."

"Mhm. If you were in such deep shit that you had to hide out in the Glowing Sea, where would you go?"

Deacon considered this, turning and looking out into the glowing wastes, feeling the hair on his arms and legs stand up as radioactive lightning snapped against the ground in his peripheral vision. "There," he said, and pointed. "On those mountains. The high ground is always best. Ghouls can't climb up that high, and radscorpions like long stretches of dirt. Easier to move around underground and jump up under your prey."

"What about the deathclaws?"

Deacon shrugged. "Hey, I didn't say it was perfect. This is prime Deathclaw territory, boss. I think the mountains are the best you're going to get."

Morgan sighed. "It's as good a plan as any. Keep moving, and look out for signs of life. Don't get killed."

Their journey didn't go entirely unhindered. A few pockets of ghouls wandered over from time to time, and half a dozen radscorpions cornered them against the side of a half-buried fallen skyscraper. But they made their way with their extremities intact, albeit with much less ammo and many more scrapes and bruises. The mountains were farther than they anticipated, too - they walked for hours, getting more and more discouraged as the dark peaks grew no closer. But they continued on, their hopes spiking as the ground beneath their feet seemed to rise, and they found themselves heading up, and up, reaching the mountain itself as the skies turned dark.

"Light?" Deacon asked. Hunger gnawed low and nagging in the pit of his stomach, warning him to sit down and rest soon. They'd walked this far without stopping for a meal, just taking snacks and drinks as they marched. He hadn't peed in two hours. Both of them were running on sheer adrenaline and will to survive.

Morgan hesitated, then nodded. "Keep it dimmed."

In unison they switched on their helmet lights, dimming them as the sunlight dipped below the horizon and cast long shadows across the stormy plains. The radscorpions and ghouls, like Deacon said, kept to their sprawling valleys and pools of radiation. But deathclaws lurked up in the peaks, building nests where the air was thin and plentiful prey lurked at the foot of the mountain. Beads of sweat dripped down their faces, dampening their clothes beneath their stuffy armor. Creeping up the sheer side of the mountains, while looking for any signs of life, Morgan turned and grasped Deacon's forearm. Lightning struck moments after she did, an unsettling punctuation to her sudden gesture.

"Cave," she murmured, keeping her voice low and unobtrusive.

She turned her headlight down even lower and looked at the cave, their lights and the lightning around them their only illumination in the darkness. They were so deep in the Sea, they could no longer make out the direction they'd come from, and they were so high above the ground that a single stumble could spell out their demise. Where they stood, the maw of a cave gaped above a small slope, something narrow but climbable, a path another man might have walked long ago. Panning their headlights down, their lights fell on the twitching, shuddering, slumbering form of a deathclaw, black-tipped claws and horns glimmering in the light.

Morgan spread a hand in front of Deacon's chest, telling him to stay without saying a word. Her armor creaked and groaned, their sudden paranoia making every small noise sound louder than the storm above them. Morgan crept to the Deathclaw's side, and hefted her rifle, pointing the barrel at the side of the creature's skull. Deacon could hear her breathing.

The deathclaw twitched, and so did she, just enough to take a quick step back. She landed too heavy, and her foot crunched in the dirt with a sharp sound. The beast groaned and blinked open its dark eyes. Then, its face contorted in rage and it parted its lips to howl as it turned and saw Morgan.

Her shotgun fired with a single, sharp sound, and the deathclaw fell over in a heap, returning almost comically to its original, relaxed position. Blood dripped from its skull and slowly crept down the side of the mountain. Morgan swallowed, adjusting her gun so another bullet lay readied in the chamber. "In the cave. Now."

Deacon didn't need to be told twice. Leaving behind the deathclaw's corpse, they treaded into the cave, squeezing through in single-file to avoid being crushed between the narrow walls of the passage. The low hum of a turret met their ears. Morgan's heart skipped a beat.

Past the initial entrance of the cave, its walls widened into a small entry room, with light emanating from a nearby doorway. The turret there blinked red and made a sharp, buzzing noise of displeasure, its engines warming as it prepared to fire. A single rifle shot, one that echoed through the cave, pierced its left engine and made it sputter to a halt. Then, from deeper within: "Who's there?"

Both agents jumped, clutching their weapons and jerking their heads towards the source of the sound. They glanced at one another, then Morgan stepped forward, removing the tin can noise traps from the doorway and setting them down before speaking. "Someone who has questions." The pair shared a nod before creeping into the room, gun barrels raised.

The heavy, lumbering steps of an unknown creature came closer. Despite the room being smaller than even Railroad HQ, it seemed to take forever for the two parties to meet. Morgan's heart thundered in her chest, a distant and irrelevant sensation as adrenaline spiked in her veins. They rounded a corner and, a few feet away, a Super Mutant stood, leveling a fierce shotgun at their chests. "Hold it!" the creature snarled. "Take it nice and slow. No sudden moves."

Morgan stopped, but kept her gun high, the sights of the rifle carefully fixed between his eyes. "Where's Virgil?"

A human look of confusion passed over the beast's face before reverting to angry distrust. "You can't fool me. I know you're from the Institute. Where's Kellogg? Is he trying to sneak up on me while you distract me?" He whipped around, glaring at the various piles of technology behind him like each one could be hiding something. "It's not going to work!"

Slowly, Morgan lowered her weapon. "Virgil?"

"Why do you keep saying that?" The creature sounded frustrated, pointing his shotgun at her chest. "You know damn well who I am. Now, where's Kellogg? I'm not stupid. I know they'd send him after me!"

Morgan let her weapon hang at her side, non-threatening. "Virgil, Kellogg's dead."

"Dead?" The mutant faltered. "He's... dead?" A moment passed before his suspicion returned, making him shake his head vehemently. "Don't you lie to me!"

"I'm not. I... I killed him myself. That's how I found this place. Killed him then went through his memories for information on the Institute." Morgan clicked the release button on the side of her helmet, unlatching it with a hiss and pulling it off her head, revealing her face. "We found you instead."

The mutant hesitated for the last time, scrutinizing her with his dull-yellow eyes before lowering his shotgun. "Did you." He sounded almost thoughtful, considering the prospect with curious disbelief. "Kellogg was ruthless. There's a reason the Institute used him to do their dirty work for so many years." His eyes unfocused for a minute, his voice lowering as he murmured to himself, pondering out loud. "I knew they'd send him after me. Tried to prepare for it. But I still wasn't sure I'd make it." His attention returned to her. "And you killed him?"

"Unless he came back to life after we tore out his brains and rifled through his memories." She cast a glance over her shoulder, reassuring herself of Deacon's presence. He lingered just behind her left, his rifle lowered but not sheathed. "You... are, Virgil, then?"

"What's left of him," the mutant grumbled. "I was working on a project, in the Institute, and... when I was making my escape, the only way to safely survive in the Glowing Sea was to turn into one of these things. I was working on a serum to reverse it, but had to flee the Institute before I could retrieve it. My name is Brian Virgil, and I might not look it, but I was once human."

"Still are, I'd wager." Morgan pressed her lips together. "I need to get into the Institute."

"I... what?" Even with the limits of his lumpy, deformed face, Virgil's flabbergasted look of shock was unmistakable. "You can't be serious. You're insane."

"Insane enough to walk miles deep into the Glowing Sea, a feat that might have stumped even Kellogg, all to track down the only man in the Commonwealth who can tell me what I need to know." She stared at him, letting that hang in the air for a moment. "I don't have time for semantics, Virgil."

"What my less charismatic partner means," Deacon interrupted, as cold fear blossomed on the mutant's face, "is that we're here because the Institute has taken people important to us, and we're trying to get into the Institute for purely magnanimous reasons. We have no intention of using their technology for personal gain."

Morgan jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "What he said."

Virgil remained slightly perturbed, but calmed down enough to give both of them the time of day. He took a breath. "Fine. I'm - I'm sorry for whoever the Institute took from you. But I'll need your help in return, if you expect me to do this."

Morgan's heartbeat quickened. "State your terms."

"My serum's still in my office in the Institute. If you can get it for me, that will pay back what you owe for my help."

"Done."

Virgil seemed surprised by her quick agreement, but didn't question it. "Then, I suppose there's nothing else but to talk details. I assume you know how synths get in and out of the Institute?"

"Some kind of teleporter." Morgan nodded.

"Commonly referred to as the 'Molecular Relay.' I don't understand all the science behind it, but it works. Like the title says, it relays your molecules across vast distances. You de-materialize in one place, re-materialize in another. It sounds crazy, but it's true."

The woman snorted. "Believe me, I've seen and heard crazier things."

"I'm sure you have. But the Relay is the only way in and out of the Institute. That means you're going to have to use it." He rubbed his hands together. "Now, have you ever seen an Institute Courser?"

"I've heard of them, and know what they do, but as far as I know I've never seen one."

"Be glad you haven't. They're hunters. Institute synths designed to track down and retrieve any missing synths. They're very good at what they do, and you're going to have to kill one."

Morgan quirked a brow. "Why?"

"Every Courser has special hardware that gives them a direct connection to the Relay in the Institute," Virgil explained. "It's embedded in a chip in their heads. If you want to use the Relay, that's your best chance. But that means tracking down and killing a Courser, which, as I'm sure you've figured out, isn't easy. But. The primary insertion point for Coursers is in the ruins of CIT, directly above the Institute." His eyes flickered down to Morgan's Pip-Boy. "You've got a radio on that thing, right? The Relay causes massive radio interference. When you get to CIT, just turn it to the lower radio signals and wait. When a Courser shows up, you'll get a strong signal from the interference, and can track down the Courser itself. Then, you just... have to not get killed."

"I assume that's easier said than done."

"Quite." Virgil nodded. "I'm not gonna lie - the odds aren't in your favor. But if you do make it, remember what I said about the serum. I need it, badly, if you hadn't noticed."

Morgan took a breath, steeling herself for the next leg of the journey. "Thank you, Virgil," she said at last, meeting his eyes. "I promise. If we do get into the Institute, I won't forget. I pay my debts."

"That's very noble of you." Virgil nodded solemnly. "I just hope you survive long enough to find what you're looking for."

Morgan swallowed. "I just hope what I'm looking for is still there."

* * *

Donny watched Tom's hands fly across the worktable, listening to the rapid stream of consciousness as the older man reassembled the repaired MILA. "See, and then you gotta - twist it three times, you see. Get that delicious connectivity, right across these wires." Tom pressed a grimy finger to the exposed copper, yelping and jerking his hand away as a snap of electricity bit his skin. "Well, see, that's how you know it works!" He sucked the tip of his finger before readjusting his fingerless gloves and closing the panel, hiding the device's circuitry.

"And this collects... 'data'?" Donny said, the new word feeling funny on his tongue.

"That's right, kiddo. Sees everything in the Commonwealth - in a certain radius, of course. With these babies, I'm like an eagle, soaring through the sky, got a birds-eye view of everything." He plucked the straps of his overalls proudly. "Without even leaving home."

"That's so cool." Donny stared at the box of wires and bulbs reverently, making the tinker preen. The boy bit his lower lip, whipping around to face Carrington, who was hunched over his desk and pointedly ignoring their conversation. "Carrington? Are you _sure_ I can't get Tom's shot?"

"Quite sure, Donny," the man grumbled, hunkering down further like he could become one with his test tubes. "Battery acid does not belong in the bloodstream of a growing boy."

"And nanobots do?" Tom exclaimed indignantly. "They're in his blood, man. Collecting all sorts of data! They could be absorbing his everything right now!"

Donny's eyes widened, and he pressed his hands to his temples. "They're in my brain?" he asked, suddenly worried.

"Nah, nah, man, you gotta understand," Tom reassured him, leaning down to place his hands on Donny's shoulders. "They're in your blood, absorbing your DNA. And if they can get your DNA, then they can just upload the data, and generate a clone of you, and get all your memories that way. That's how they make their replacement-"

"Tom, if I hear one more word." Des's warning voice shot across the room.

"I'm just speaking the truth, Des!" Tom shouted back, standing upright, putting his hands on his hips self-righteously. He shuffled back to his worktable, sulking and grumbling under his breath. Donny's brows furrowed, still concerned, but he decided it wasn't worth worrying about. Tom would handle it, he thought decisively. Tinker Tom knew lots of things. He was clearly the smartest person here.

Donny swiped a piece of chalk from the back room and sat in front of the chalkboards, tracing the railsigns onto the brick floor, practicing the dashes and different symbols. Remembering the names of the safehouses was harder, but he knew basic literacy from his comic books, so he could remember it if he tried. Writing out the letters of their long names helped him remember his alphabets, anyway.

"Drummer?" Donny looked up, catching the attention of the agent as he walked past. "How'd'ya spell, uh, 'compartmentalization'?"

"Uh." It occurred to Drummer that he didn't know. "What do you wanna know that word for?"

"Desdemona was sayin' it when she and High Rise were talkin' about Ticonder-"

" _Ti_ conderoga, kid. Not tick. _Tie_. Like tying your shoes."

" _Ti_ conderoga."

"Mhm. Say, why don't you lay off trying to spell stuff for now? Might make Des mad again. 'Member when she found you in the back room and thought you were listening to her debrief?"

The boy pouted. "Yes."

"Yeah. Why don't you go play with that slingshot Tom gave you? Or have Glory take you out shooting again?"

"Des said she can't do that anymore. _Even though_ I told her how to kill Mirelurks really good and that's why we have so much food now."

Drummer wondered why they'd been having so much chowder recently. "Well, you gotta do what Des tells you."

Donny jutted his chin out, kicking at the floor, drawing a white X over his half-finished railsign. "She doesn't like me."

Drummer didn't have an answer for that one, so he just ruffled Donny's hair and went back to what he was doing, inputting his latest report into the records terminal, pulling down his hat to ignore Des's surly gaze. Des had been extra cranky ever since Fixer brought the kid 'round. Sure, he was a kid, and kids don't exactly belong around a gang of spies, but. He wasn't a bad kid, and he tried to help out. And that chowder had been pretty damn good. Ah, well. "Say la vee," like Deacon always said.

Heavy footsteps echoing from down the hall caused everyone, including Donny, to freeze. The footsteps got closer, and closer, heavy enough to be the feet of a dozen men, all stomping in unison. The noise rose, and rose, thundering to a halt right outside HQ's front door. Then, the doorknob turned, twisting against the lock for a few seconds that felt like an eternity.

Two sets of power armor stepped through. Banged up all to hell, but in one piece. Donny leapt up. "You're back!" Once he'd moved, it seemed to break the spell on everyone else, making them come forward. Some stared in shock. Others pride. Many asked questions. Carrington nagged at them to get out of their suits and let him administer some RadAway. Tom already had some kind of scanner running on them. Des waited patiently at the back of the crowd, a small, rebellious smile on her face.

When at last the two agents broke through the small crowd, they stopped in front of Des, removing their helmets to reveal sweaty faces and mussed hair. "Long time no see," Desdemona remarked.

"It's been a rough few weeks, Des," Morgan sighed, weariness pulling at her expression, but determination still bright in her eyes. "We got it. We can get into the Institute."

Des raised her eyebrows as a wave of gasps and whispers rolled through the crowd. "You got it?" Des asked, growing excited. "You actually got it?"

Morgan reached into her pack and pulled out a carefully wrapped package, shrouded in layers of protective coverings. Opening it with careful fingers revealed a blood-stained hunk of circuitry. "I have blueprints to a teleporter - the Molecular Relay, the very thing the Institute uses to get around without detection. And this - " Morgan gestured with the hand holding the circuits. " - has the technology to connect us right to the Institute's relay directly. We can do this, Des."

Des stared at Morgan's open palm for a few moments, then gingerly picked up the bloody object and cradled it in her palms. She stared at Morgan, searching for the right words. After a few moments, the room dead silent around her, she swallowed, and raised her chin.

"Tell me what you need."


	13. Chapter Twelve

The thick sludge of the swamp mud sucked at their boots as they trudged towards the construction site. Donny dangled off of Deacon's back, arms locked around Deacon's neck, bare feet covered in dark mud. Tinker Tom followed along behind them, increasingly agitated and paranoid, shoulders hunched as he cast leery glances over his shoulders.

"H-Hey, man, you really think - you really think it's a good idea, to be, you know... out here?" Tom yelped and slapped his arm.

"It's the safest place we can build the Relay," Morgan stated. "The Murkwater swamp is one of the least hospitable places in the Commonwealth. And one of the least populated. This is the least likely place the Institute would keep eyes on, and the least likely place anyone would visit or interfere with. We can't build it around HQ or any of the safehouses, and building it anywhere populated would be too much of a threat to the people already living there."

"I-I know, but... it's so... bright." Tom made a face as he looked up at the sky.

"I mean, you'd have better luck if you didn't keep staring at the sun," the woman grumbled. She looked up, holding a hand over her eyes to see better into the dim light of the trees. "There." Between the dark, leafless trees loomed the rusted carcasses of rotting construction equipment, surrounded by abandoned piles of wood and cement bags. Morgan led the way, hacking through chunks of thorny bush and making sure no leering monsters lurked in the shadows.

"Deacon, look!" Donny sat up abruptly, making Deacon grimace. "Lookit!"

A bulldozer and a tractor cast long shadows over the clearing, sunken into the mud from centuries of isolation, strangling vines curled into their innards. Donny wiggled from Deacon's grasp, and the two slogged through the mud to climb into the nearest machine, Donny leaving muddy footprints on the side of it as he scampered up to the control seat. Deacon followed, standing on the treads and watch the boy play with various ineffectual levers and buttons.

Morgan sighed and turned her attention to the tinker. "Will this be enough space for you?"

"Uh." Tinker Tom pulled the thick scrolls of blueprints from his pack, unfurling them and staring at them. He blinked, then fumbled to turn the blueprints right-side up. "Yeah. Yeah, yeah, no, that - this should do great. That looks about... " He closed one eye and wagged his finger across the length of the clearing, murmuring numbers under her breath. "... Yep! All the space we need. I just need the supplies." He looked at Morgan expectantly.

"There's Minutemen in the Castle, waiting for the order to bring supplies down. I'll radio them now. You get started on making some kind of base camp." Morgan waved a hand at him, and Tom took the hint, running off to pull his many tools and devices from his bag and get started on the blueprints.

Morgan sighed. She hadn't _wanted_ to contact the Minutemen. But they were the only ones - aside from the Brotherhood - with the resources to build the Relay. She'd first made contact with them when she left the Vault, and helped them fend off some raiders in exchange for some caps and information about the area. Back then, they'd just been some homeless stragglers, trying to create a new settlement where they could be safe. Unfortunately, they asked her to help them build a settlement in what had been her old neighborhood, and, well… sparks flew.

Their leader, Preston Garvey, wasn't a bad guy. Far from it. In truth, he was as close to a real-life Prince Charming that the Commonwealth was ever going to get. But his optimism clashed with her rather pessimistic view of the world. He insisted that nothing could be more important than building a life for people who'd lost everything. Morgan argued that she'd lost everything, and that she had places to be, thanks. But she often found herself helping them out in exchange for extra caps. She'd find various homestead-esque places, put up some basic defenses, then radio Preston to send people down to that area. Morgan blamed Preston's guilt trips about starving families, orphaned kids, yada yada.

And now. They'd built themselves up, right under her nose. No longer were they a handful of family farms and some young men and women who fancied themselves a "militia" because they shot BB guns when they were kids. Now they'd become an army, taking over a derelict, Pre-War fort and naming it "The Castle." They'd extended their reach to nearly every settlement in the Commonwealth, branding themselves as servants of the people.

Deacon liked them. But, he agreed with Morgan; some torches and pitchforks did not a new world make. Before Morgan had ever come along, the Minutemen had possessed substantial power. But then they turned on each other in a power struggle, leading to their downfall and forcing Preston to rebuild from the ground up. Morgan decided she'd reserve judgement until this version of the Minutemen could prove they were made of sterner stuff than just optimism and vegetables.

Still. Right now, her focus was the Relay. She could deal with Preston when the time came.

The Minutemen showed up a few hours later, following Morgan's careful - coded - directions to the hidden construction site. They carried with them piles of electrical and metal gear, tents, food and water, and the Minutemen themselves, as security in case anyone came poking around.

Morgan, armed with a clipboard and pencil, was overseeing everyone's arrival when she saw him. "Garvey," she said, raising her eyebrows. "You're here."

"Good to see you too, Morgan," Preston replied good-naturedly. He had a rounded, open sort of face, with deep creases from many sleepless nights baked into his skin. His skin was a dark umber, cheeks warmed from the exertion of walking all this way. Covering him were a few layers of coats and vests, finely-stitched things likely made by a devoted farmer's wife, with dyes most wastelanders never saw outside of Pre-War curtains and rugs. He had a determined, terribly earnest air about him. You almost felt guilty for being the slightest bit downcast in his presence. He believed - why didn't you?

"Normally I wouldn't ask so much." Morgan gestured to the hubbub of tent-raising and supply-distributing around them. "But it's important."

Preston raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to ask what this is all about? Your people told me it had something to do with getting into the Institute. Figured that was worth putting my own people behind."

Morgan hesitated. "It's... big. You know I wouldn't get you involved otherwise."

He nodded. "I know." Preston adjusted his hat, one hand resting on the stock of his sheathed musket. "We took the Castle recently," he said, starting small talk.

"I heard. How were the mirelurks?"

Preston shot her a look. "You knew?"

Morgan shrugged. "I heard after the fact. Didn't have any reason to head up that way myself, so I didn't know ahead of time."

He shifted, watching a few more Minutemen walk past, carrying lumber and strips of metal. "You could have helped," he said. "We could have used someone like you. Might've saved a few lives."

Morgan bristled. "Well, I didn't, did I? No reason to complain about it now."

Preston sighed. "I'm not trying to attack you, Morgan, I promise. I just-"

"I know you're not," she snapped. "That's what gets under my skin. If you were just a jerk we'd be fine, but no, you've got to be a better person than the rest of us. Thanks, Garvey."

"We okay over here?" Deacon wandered over, wiping grease off his hands with a discarded rag. "Hey, are you that Garvey guy I've been hearing so much about?" He smiled, smoothing over the tension with a single toothy grin. He slipped, almost without trying, into the role of adoring civilian.

Preston preened, brightening under the acknowledgement. He tipped his hat. "That's me, sir. Just doing my job, trying to hold everything together."

Behind his shoulder, Morgan rolled her eyes, mocking the movement of his lips.

"Well, I sure am glad for all the good you're doing around the Commonwealth." Deacon reached out, and Preston shook his hand. "I know lots of us are."

"Glad to hear it. Though, there's always more to be done. 'Scuse me." And with that, he walked away, going to supervise some militiamen as they put up their tents.

Deacon's smile faded as soon as Preston's attention was elsewhere. He approached Morgan, one eyebrow arched over the lens of his sunglasses. "What do you think you're doing?"

Morgan glowered at her clipboard. "He was being a nice person at me."

"And that's a reason to start a scene?" Deacon reached up, gently pulling down her clipboard so she had to look up and meet his eyes. "Look. I know you resent him for moving into your old neighborhood. And the Minutemen aren't perfect. I get it. But we need their resources. Preston's giving us all this because he's trying to pay you back after all your help. Without you, the Minutemen might not be here." He pressed his lips together. "Without you, a lot of people might be dead."

"Yeah, and I didn't ask to be a hero." Morgan jerked her clipboard away. "I hate all this fuckin' high-horse nonsense. I hate the way Preston always looks at me, with his sad goddamn puppy-dog eyes, thinking I'm some broken-hearted old woman who can be fixed if I just learn to hope again. It's bullshit. And I don't like him."

Deacon sighed. "You don't have to like him. Just… put up with him. Just until the Relay's done." He stepped forward, clasping one of her hands in his. "Please?"

Morgan opened her mouth to protest, but his palm was warm against her fingers, a puff of his breath shifting her hair. She set her jaw, lip curling in a grimace. "Fine."

Deacon smiled. "You're a peach, boss."

And then he left, off to wander through the campsite, gathering intel, giving suggestions, and taking care of Donny. Morgan huffed and crossed off a few things on her clipboard, marching over to oversee Tinker Tom's operations.

After a moment, her anger quelled, and she released a tired sigh. Really, she had no reason for Preston to put her in such a mood. He _was_ one of the kindest people she'd ever known. But then, maybe that's why she resented him, and his Minutemen. All his happiness and his redemption seemed to mock her. Anytime he was around, he seemed to want to fix her, to inspire her. To show her that the world really _could_ be better, if we all just worked together and did our best and tried to be good people. The kind of shit they talked about on Sean's favorite TV shows, the kind they made for babies.

Morgan hated people who talked down to her. But, more importantly, she hated people who found happiness where she could not.

* * *

Between Tinker Tom's direction, the help of the steady stream of Minutemen flowing in and out of the clearing, they managed to get it done in a month. The cool air of September dried their sweat to their skin, the exertion of construction keeping them warm as autumn approached. Morgan had already survived one winter here in the wasteland, during those few months after emerging from the Vault, when everything was a blur and she spoke only in one-and-two word sentences.

She'd come a long way since then.

Donny turned out to be more useful than Deacon. Despite her reservations, she'd let him come along on this mission, figuring it was better to have him out of Des's hair than to leave him alone again. He loved running messages between people, or helping assemble parts, or doing odd jobs for spare caps. He loved listening to Tinker Tom talk, and improved his reading skills by reading from the blueprints while everyone worked. Preston taught him how to fire a laser musket before heading back to the Castle. Soon, the resident Minutemen - a few not much older than Donny himself - soon learned that the way to the boy's heart was through Snack Cakes and comic books.

Distantly, Morgan remembered that she was supposed to be escorting the boy to Diamond City, to potential relatives. But she reminded herself that she'd been in and out of Diamond City plenty of times, and no one had ever asked her about a boy. No one would miss him or be unhappy if she kept him around for a little while. Besides, she told herself, watching him and Deacon sneak a frog into Tinker Tom's pillowcase. He was happy here. And that's what mattered.

Everyone stank of rank mud and oil grease, but no one minded. For once, the sun shone and Morgan felt accomplished. Every day the Relay took shape, reaching taller and higher and with more intricate bits worked into it. Donny played games on her Pip-Boy when she wasn't using it. Deacon helped cook dinner. The Minutemen called her "Ma'am" and Tinker Tom stopped fearing the sun.

It was September 21st, 2288, when she realized how little time she had left.

Deacon entered their tent late that night, after dinner and after the night-shift guards had taken their place. The thick cloth of their tent kept the Murkwater mud from seeping through. Inside, Morgan sat upright, dressed in her underclothes with her boots sitting just outside the front of the tent. She had that strange, faraway look she wore when worrying, when something pulled at her heart and frightened her. A Jet inhaler winked at him from within her pack.

Donny laid beside her, his head of messy auburn hair resting in her lap, her fingers absently running through it over and over as he slept. "Everything alright, boss?" Deacon asked tentatively, laying down on his sleeping bag.

Morgan stared off for a few more moments before blinking and seeming to regain some of her faculties. "I don't know," she whispered hoarsely.

Pinpricks of cold fear stabbed into his chest. "What's wrong?"

She stared again, sightless eyes directed at his chest before she lifted her head and met his gaze. "I'm going to die."

"What?" He sat up. "What happened?"

Morgan shook her head. "The Relay. I'm going through it."

His chest stabbed again. His heart danced on the precipice of a cliff, ready to jump. "Yes?"

"I'm not going to come back."

There it went. "Of course you will, boss," he said, hiding his sudden, aching pain behind a nervous chuckle. "I mean, you're... you're _you_ , I feel like the Institute couldn't be ready for you in a million years."

Morgan didn't even crack a smile. "No, Deacon." She spoke in that same hoarse, reverent whisper. The murmurs of a ghost. "It's the Institute. You've seen the synths. They can create life, for christ's sake. There's no telling what kind of security they've got in there. What technology, what horrors. None of us have any idea what to expect." Her voice quavered. "I don't even know if my son's still in there. And… we both know there's almost no chance of me coming home."

His heart skipped a beat. He'd never heard her call anything in this time period _home_ before. He sought the words to comfort her, to make her stop saying such terrible things, to dissipate both their worries and to feel safe knowing that she'd come back. No words came.

In response to his sunglass-covered silence, she turned away, staring at the flaps of their tent. "I thought this was what I wanted," she said, eyes unfocused as she drifted into her own monologue. "It is what I wanted, at first. I had no idea where Sean was, I didn't know who'd taken him, I didn't know anyone in this world. I hated myself for letting them be taken. I hated everything, everyone. I hated the world for moving on without me, I hated it for what it'd taken from me, I hated feeling like an outsider, again, just when I thought I'd have my happy ending. I wanted to die.

"Then..." Her face contorted in frustration. "Then I met you. And the Railroad. It wasn't the same, and I don't think it ever will be, but I had a reason to be here other than to throw myself at bullets until one of them hit me. On complete accident I've got a purpose, I've got a goal, an organization. Friends, for christ's sake. People to save, people to talk to, places to go, things to see. I jumpstarted the organization that might lead to the resettlement of this whole damn Commonwealth. You saw Preston. He's like a goddamn president. He looks noble. And kind. And people follow him.

"There's so much in this world that's a part of me, now. And... Donny." Her hand stopped moving through his hair. He shifted in his sleep, then relaxed again, mouth falling open in a cute-ugly snore. Her hand rested on his cheek, warm fingers running along the length of his soft, baby-faced jaw. "Suddenly I'm here, achieving what I've spent the past year working towards, and now I don't know if I want this. If I want to die.

"I'm scared."

Deacon didn't have the words to comfort her, and he hated himself for it.

* * *

Desdemona showed up the following morning. "I got Tom's radio signal," she said, looking as cold and impassive as always. She hadn't brought anyone with her. She hadn't needed to. "Is it done?"

Morgan nodded, her expression revealing nothing. "It's done."

"Then there's no time to waste. Gather everyone. It's time."

Deacon watched numbly as the Minutemen assembled around the Relay. Morgan climbed onto the platform and took her place in the center of the relay platform. Des paced in front of the machine, at the minimum safe distance, the electricity pumping through the Relay making her hair stand up from static. Donny moved like he wanted to go closer, but Deacon caught him, placing both of his hands on the boy's shoulders to keep him still and offer comfort.

"Is she leaving?" Donny asked, voice high and vulnerable. They - Morgan and Deacon - had told the boy what to expect, though hadn't given specifics. All Donny knew was that she was going away for a while.

"Mhm." Deacon's grip increased slightly on his shoulders.

The Relay switched on. Deacon saw Morgan twitch, saw her shoulders tense, saw her dozen little anxious tells. She was kited out in her best armor and gear. All her weapons, all her ammo. Her orders, written in an innocent-looking code tucked in her back pocket. _Contact Tinker Tom once you're in_ , the paper said. _Stop the Institute. Lie. Keep us secret, at all costs._

Desdemona barked orders over the increasingly loud hum of the Relay. Sharp blue electricity danced along the exposed metal. Ripples formed in the mud, pushing away from the Relay as the force within sent small shockwaves rumbling through the ground. The Minutemen glanced at one another, uncertain and afraid. Deacon didn't blame them.

The Relay roared, louder and louder, invisible forces blowing everyone's hair back, making their skin tingle with static electricity. The winds blew the few bits of exposed hair around Morgan's face, her clothes flapping against the force, Desdemona shouting louder and louder as the sounds grew. The Relay glowed blue, electricity cracking bigger and bigger, like a jar of lightning. Tinker Tom started shouting too, something about "millions of molecules" and "coordinates" and-

"I can't!" Morgan blurted, taking a step forward and off the platform. "I can't do th-"

Blinding light erupted. Everyone shut their eyes and jerked their hands up, stepping back. Then, the light vanished. The sound stopped.

They looked again, and Morgan was gone.

* * *

Morgan blinked, and the world had changed. She staggered, disoriented, boggled by the sudden absence of sound and light. Where was the Relay? Where was everyone? What happened?

Her first new word rose to her lips. "Deacon?"

No reply.

Gone. Deacon, Donny, Desdemona, Tinker Tom, all the Minutemen, the Relay, the campsite, all... gone. Morgan took a few trembling steps forward, out of this dark metal room, into near blinding-whiteness. Her eyes adjusted, revealing a second room, with no trace of dirt or dust. A few things were decorated with bright stripes of primary colors, looking sleek and minimalist. A shiny terminal sat on a desk facing the room she'd come from. Her boots and gloves left dark marks of mud wherever they touched, muddy footprints trailing her and smears of dirt on the doorways she touched.

An older, male voice, echoed from unseen speakers. Morgan didn't register the words, only the command within them. _Go_. So she went. Following the voice as if in a dream, putting one foot in front of the other to avoid collapsing. An elevator floated her down through Wonderland, trees and bright green grass divided by glimmering rivers, people in white coats walking to and fro. Metal skeletons stood guard at doorways. Humans stopped and stared at her as the elevator rode down.

Through more white hallways that hurt her eyes, she found herself in a room with a clear plexiglass cage. A boy stood within. Her mind flashed to a long-ago image. Kellogg, standing in the Diamond City shack, this boy beside him. She still couldn't talk. Something had lodged in her throat, keeping the words from her lips. She couldn't move, only pulled along by other forces, a puppet on someone else's strings.

The boy within the glass cage backed away as she approached, eyes widening as her dirty, gloved fingers pressed against the window, leaving a black-brown smear behind. "Hello?" His voice quavered. "W-Who are you? What are you doing here?" The boy had her hair. Nate's face. Those delicate, soft features, with that curve in his cheeks where dimples formed when he smiled. "You're scaring me. F-Father? Father! Father, take her away!"

A door hissed and opened in her peripheral vision. She didn't look at who entered. Couldn't look. The stranger uttered a code, and the boy's eyes dulled. The boy slumped over, breaking eye contact with her. Morgan stood upright and turned to face the stranger.

Nate's face stood out at her. Impish dimples, now hidden by lines of age. Dark hair now a deathly white. A kindly brow twisted by a dark curiosity. "Hello, Morgan," the stranger said. "It's good to finally meet you."

Morgan whispered as if in prayer. "You have your father's eyes." Then she collapsed, and everything went black.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

The silence was deafening.

Everyone stared at the empty, soundless relay for a few moments, waiting for some kind of response. Des spoke first. "Well?"

Tom replied after a second or two, fingers dancing over the terminal keyboard. "That... That's it, Des. She's gone. If it worked, it worked, but there's no way to know until she contacts us."

Another, uneasy silence fell over the clearing. "Deacon?" Donny murmured, craning his neck to look up at the man behind him. "When is Morgan going to come back?"

Deacon's throat bobbed. "I don't know, Donny," he said. He pulled on the boy's shoulders. "Come on. We have to pack. We're going home."

Donny stood where he was, letting Deacon take a few steps before turning around to face him. "Where are we going?" The crowd was starting to disperse. Des was barking orders, getting everyone to dismantle the Relay so no one could find or use it afterwards. Everyone save for her had gone quiet.

"Back to HQ."

"But what about Morgan?" Donny looked helplessly between the Relay and the sunglass-clad, too-calm man before him. "Where did she go? Why did she go?"

"We told you, Donny. It's important, and we have to keep it a secret."

"But-" Donny couldn't seem to take this as an answer. "But-"

"Donny, please." Exhaustion pulled at Deacon's features, made his wig itch and his feet twitch to run away. "Let's just go pack our things, okay? We have to get all your stuff and say goodbye to everyone before they leave. We'll... talk about this later."

Donny stared at the Relay for a few more moments, then slowly, reluctantly, followed Deacon back to their tent.

* * *

The calendar glared at him, dangling on the wall as a bitter, faded-paper taunt. Each day of the month bore a bright red-marker cross, cruel and mocking reminders of Morgan's absence. Deacon sat at one of the desks in HQ, bundled in a sweater and some brahmin-hide gloves, trying to keep warm as the chill of winter dug its claws into the earth and turned everyone's breath white. An underground headquarters meant they saved caps on heating, but since keeping a fire would fill the room with smoke, the place felt shivery.

At first everyone had been quiet. Waiting, hoping, wondering what had become of their top agent, of the woman who'd killed an Institute operative, gone into the Glowing Sea, and come back to top it all off by killing a Courser. If anyone could survive whatever lay in the Institute, it was her. But after a week or two, the tension faded, and things went back to the way they were. As far as the Railroad was concerned, Fixer was dead until proven otherwise.

Des hadn't brought up Donny yet, though Deacon knew she would, just as he knew he didn't want to talk about it. With Morgan gone, he'd had to take care of Donny on his own. He lacked Morgan's sense of purpose and confidence with kids. A part of him, the part that always wanted a family of his own, envied her for that. So he always feared, after interacting with the kid, that maybe he was saying all the wrong things and screwing Donny up without realizing.

Donny, for his part, had been quiet and reserved ever since Morgan left. For being around less than two months, he'd bonded well with the rest of the agents. Deacon and Morgan, sure, they had issues and taken a liking to Donny from the start. But everyone else - except Des - warmed up after a while, too. Tom indulged Donny's obsession with weird, comic-book-esque devices. Carrington put bandaids on his cuts and bruises. Drummer ruffled his hair and acted almost like a weird big brother. And Glory taught him how to kill things. Which, was to be expected.

Deacon just did his best. He tried doing the things he remembered from his childhood, and his young adulthood, which were two distinct periods in his life. They played cards, and cars, and pretend. He taught him how to play - and cheat at - poker. He recited stories from books he'd read long ago, and read him passages from new ones. Told him fairy tales and Pre-War history and religious myths. Donny always slept near him at night.

But Des had been giving him a free ride for too long, letting him linger in HQ with Donny while the other agents came and went. He filed papers and made smart remarks and pretended to ignore each day Des marked the calendar in bright red ink. He ruffled Donny's hair and tried to make sure he ate well. He was trying. That's all he could do.

"Deacon." The agent looked up his papers to the woman looming over him. Des tapped two fingers on his desk. "I need you in my office."

Deacon swallowed. "Sure, boss," he said, sounding light-hearted.

Des vanished into her office, and the other agents pretended not to notice their exchange. Deacon steeled himself for the inevitable. Donny sat near Tom's workshop, the heat from the tinker's tools warm against his back, his nose buried in some book. Everything was quiet. Deacon stood and headed for Desdemona's office.

He stopped just outside her door when he heard her voice wafting, muffled, against the curtain. "Run the numbers again, PAM." She sounded tired.

The robot's innards clicked and hummed. Her voicebox started up with a familiar, feminine lilt. "It has been forty-three days since Agent Fixer left through the Molecular Relay. Based on a limited understanding of the Institute's technological capabilities and the recorded strength and speed of the units known as Coursers, odds of Agent Fixer's survival, are: Five percent. These numbers are not definitive. Actual statistics could be higher, or lower. Insufficient data to make a more in-depth analysis."

Des sighed. The sound made even Deacon weary. "Thank you, PAM."

Deacon stepped into the room, making Desdemona jerk her head up. "You wanted to see me?"

The woman nodded, gesturing PAM away and crossing her arms. She waited for Deacon to get comfortable in one of the cold steel folding chairs before speaking. "I have a mission for you." Des let the words hang in the air for a few moments before continuing. "You'll find information located in the Eastern Diamond City drop site. I assume you have an alias ready." Discomfort twisted her features, making her press her lips tight together as she formed the last part of her speech. "I want you to leave Donny at Diamond City before you start the mission."

Deacon's eyebrows rose into his forehead. "You want me to leave him?"

"That's what I said."

"Des, I-" For once, Deacon struggled to find a response. "That's asking a lot."

"I realize that you and the boy have... bonded, during your time together. And I understand that you were particularly fond of... our most recent recruit." She couldn't even say her name. Des hesitated, then deflated, and her voice grew gentler. "It's been over a month, Deacon. I can't let you sit out there any longer. You - _we_ \- have work to do."

Deacon's wig itched. He racked his brain for any kind of defense, or argument. Something to convince Des to let him stay, give him a reason to linger and wait for Morgan without giving himself away. He couldn't say that he cared about Donny. He couldn't say that Morgan meant more to him than he wanted to admit. He couldn't say that he'd broken the most important of his many rules: _you can't trust everyone._

He ignored the burn behind his eyes and took a breath, hoping to rid his throat of its tightness. "I know, Des," he said, once he could trust his voice not to crack. "I'll take care of it. I'll drop him off at the gate before I get the drop."

Desdemona watched him stand up. "It won't be a problem?" she questioned, sounding dubious.

"Cross my heart and hope to die, boss," he said, forcing a smile. "Donny's a good kid. He'll adjust, I'm sure. With Morgan gone, he's got no real reason to stick around." His heart ached.

Des nodded, content with the obedience. "Good. Leave whenever you're ready. You know where your things are."

And she turned away, paying him no more attention now that he'd given in. Deacon left, letting the curtain to her office flutter shut behind him as he stood and faced the room, suddenly feeling dizzy and off-kilter. The agents hunched over their desks paid him no mind. Those milling back and forth around the room didn't even notice his presence. Donny hadn't looked up from his comic book.

Deacon scratched the back of his neck and ducked into the back room, taking deep breaths to steady himself. He scratched until his neck hurt, then finally took off his wig and threw it against the floor, running his hands over his bald head and pacing back and forth past the mattresses and shelves lining the narrow walls.

This was all a mistake. All of it. Running off with Morgan, talking about his past, agreeing to take Donny back to HQ. He should have known better. Why hadn't he followed his own advice? Why hadn't he gotten a face change months ago? He needed a new name, a new face, a new set of clothes. Needed to run away, start anew. Run off until he'd built up his new alias, then come back to HQ with his walls rebuilt. His defenses were too thin, and his heart too close to bursting.

"Deacon?" Donny's small voice echoed in the passage. Deacon stopped, and looked. The boy leaned around the corner of the doorway, comic book still clutched in one hand, worry written into his wide eyes. "Everything okay?"

Deacon stopped, lowering his hands and leaving his lips parted as he took a few heavy breaths. "Yeah, Donny," he breathed at last. His shoulders slumped. "Yeah. It's fine. Um." He slid one hand over the smooth dome of his head, scratching the top of it. "You need to go pack your things, okay?"

Donny's brow furrowed, lips curving in a small, worried pout. He stepped into the room, one hand resting on the doorframe. His shoulders balled tight, rising towards his ears. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, just-" An unfamiliar, unwanted sense of panic rested on him. He had to still his hands to keep from clawing at his skull again. He swallowed. "You and I are going to be leaving soon."

"Going where?" Donny faltered, and took a step back, towards the wall.

"Nowhere bad!" Deacon assured him, coming forward and raising a hand. He sighed. "I promise. Donny, I swear. This isn't that bad. I shouldn't be so freaked out. I shouldn't…" He trailed off, and shook his head. "Des told me it's time you finally got to Diamond City. See if we can't leave you with your relatives or a good family."

Donny blinked his wide eyes. The paper of his comic book crinkled in a slowly tightening fist. In a very soft voice, he spoke. "But I don't want to go."

Deacon exhaled. His shoulders slumped. "Donny, please."

"No, I just-" He scrunched his eyes up tight, then opened them again, looking at Deacon pleadingly. "I like it here. It's nice. It's more fun than being alone on the beach. Everyone's nice to me, and there's always something hot to eat, and-"

"Donny." Deacon approached the boy and knelt down, hands resting on Donny's shoulders. "It's not up to me. Besides. Wouldn't you be happier, out there?" he asked. "Everyone's old and tired here. We don't have time to raise a kid - well, not the way a kid _should_ be raised. You could be somewhere with, with parents, and siblings. Maybe a dog or something. Don't you want that?"

Donny wavered. "I don't _know_ ," he said, voice cracking. "I don't know what I'm s'posed to want. I was all by myself, and then- and then I wasn't. I don't want to be alone again," he begged, blue eyes turned red-rimmed. "I don't want to be left behind."

Deacon stared, stunned. In his mind's eye, he saw the image of a scrawny, fifteen year old ginger kid, dressed in a leather jacket two sizes too big for him. Big blue eyes, earnest features. Absentee father. Wielding a baseball bat and beating the shit out of some girl 'cause their gang leader said she might be a synth. How far was Donny from going down that path? How close was he to making the same mistakes?

Deacon drew his hand down Donny's cheek. "Your dad didn't mean to leave you behind, Donny," he whispered. "It wasn't his fault."

Fat tears welled up Donny's eyes. "Morgan left me behind," he said, very quietly.

Deacon's heart seized, and he pulled Donny into a hug. A tight one, with Donny's head under his chin, arms wrapped tight around each other. He hadn't hugged anyone in a long time. Maybe years. After a moment, he relinquished his grip, leaning back and wiping tears from Donny's cheeks. "You didn't tell me how much it bothered you," he said.

Donny sniffled. "I didn't- I dunno," he said, voice coming in tearful, gasping breaths. "I was just- alone, and then- you guys, and-" He wiped his eyes with one dirty sleeve. _"You were nice to me," he finished lamely._

 _Nice to me when I was alone_ , Deacon thought. Again, he thought back to that lonely ginger kid, angry and unhappy and feeling trapped in a small town, lured to darkness by a group of kids who promised to give him all the affirmation he wanted. "Donny, I promise. I'm not going leave you alone."

Donny blinked tearfully. "Are you sure?"

Suddenly, a lot made sense. Deacon hadn't thought much of how quickly Donny adjusted to being in the Railroad, surrounded by kind strangers. Or of how quickly Donny trusted him and Morgan, when kids his age were raised from birth to reject outsiders, for survival's sake. Growing up, with only your dad for company, and then losing your dad… Donny might think he was too grown-up to grieve, but clinging to the first person to be nice to you was another form of coping.

"I promise." Deacon slid off his sunglasses, meeting Donny's bright blue eyes with his own. "I promise. I won't- I'm not gonna drop you off at Diamond City. Not unless you ask me to. You and I, we're gonna- we can get out of here. Go wherever you want to go. Morgan's gone. It's just the two of us." He took Donny's hands, clasping them between his own. "I won't let you down."

 _I can't let you make my mistakes._

"Ho-ly shit." Drummer spoke, as if from far away. "Fixer's back."

Donny turned, shock written all over his face. Deacon followed a moment after, and slowly, the two of them emerged from the hallway. Deacon felt dazed. Drugged, almost. He stepped into the main room, but whoever had come through the door was blocked from his sight, surrounded by a crowd. Everyone started to clap, a few letting out enthusiastic cheers before the applause awkwardly died down into a heavy silence. Quiet footsteps shuffled across the brick floor, and the crowd parted.

Morgan's armor was cleaner than he'd ever seen it, her hair was washed and brushed, she had no dirt under her fingernails or stains in her military fatigues. But the look in her eye… that was something else. She hadn't looked like that except after Kellogg, and after the Memory Den.

He blinked and suddenly he was standing in front of her, having moved to her without realizing. Her eyes were unfocused, but she stopped, and he waited, terrified, for her to look at him. After a long, tense second, she did, gray-blue eyes searching his sunglasses with a pained, desperate look, like someone drowning in a vast ocean with no lifeboat in sight. She didn't hug him, she fell into him, collapsing against his chest and gripping her arms around him like a vise. She buried her face in his neck, her thick armor clunky and awkward against his body, and began to weep silently.

Fixer was back. But it remained to be seen if Morgan had come back in one piece.

* * *

"So." Des took a long drag off of her cigarette. "You think you and Patriot will be able to organize a rebellion?"

"Yes."

Donny shivered. Deacon put an arm around his shoulders, shielding him from the bitter cold of above-ground Boston. Morgan had insisted on talking outside of HQ, so here they were, shivering on the coast behind the Church, listening to the slow, rhythmic roar of the ocean as it lapped against the sands. 'Talking' was a strong word, too, as Morgan hadn't offered more than terse, few-word answers. The sky was gray and overcast. The clouds still poured rain, not snow, but that could change any day now. Donny pulled his woolen sweater tighter around him.

Desdemona gave Morgan a side-eyed look. "Did you find your son?"

Morgan's eyes turned glassy. "No."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Des took another smoke, then flicked gold-glowing ashes onto the murky sand. "Do you have any intel for us?"

Morgan reached into her bag and pulled out a holotape. "Report."

Des reached over, plucking the tape from the other woman's fingers with as little contact as possible. "Good." Her coldness melted slightly, and she cast two uncertain glances at the two males waiting on the beach. "About Donny-"

"Mine."

Des halted, waiting for further explanation, but none came. She toyed with her cigarette again. "Fixer, I… "I need to know if you're still an agent."

Morgan blinked. A second passed. "I don't know."

Desdemona nodded. "Thank you, Fixer. For all you've done for us." She dropped the cigarette, and crushed it under her boot. "I'm sorry."

Then, holotape in hand, she fled, ducking back into the warmth and safety of the Church. The wind whipped against their hair and clothes, howling against the sides of the aged brick buildings. The sun approached the horizon, golden rays of fading light making shades of pink and orange wink through the clouds. Donny stepped out of Deacon's arm, padding across the wet sand to Morgan's side, reaching for her hand. He didn't say anything, just clasped it through his own, thin and grimy fingers pressed against a clean, calloused palm.

Morgan took a moment to turn and hug Donny, treasuring him for a few moments and running her fingers through his hair before retracting. Still holding Donny's hand, she approached Deacon with a terribly weary look on her face. "Deacon," she said. "Take me home."

Deacon thought for a moment. Then with a brisk nod, he took Donny's free hand in his own, and the three walked off into the city.

They found a battered cottage along the coast, close enough they could hear the water but not see it. They put Donny's old posters on the walls with duct tape. Pushed together some ratty mattresses for a three-person bed. Donny's toys littered the floor. Deacon hung up his costumes on rusty hangers in what remained of a closet. They busted open the stove and used it as a fire pit, loading it with logs and twigs and setting it ablaze, letting it ward away the nighttime chill as the sun descended into the ground and shadow stretched out across the Commonwealth.

Donny fell asleep at Morgan's side, pressed against her as close as he could get, his feet near the fire and two blankets thrown over him. Morgan and Deacon sat together, near but not touching, enjoying the peace and quiet of the night.

"It's so loud here," Morgan said, unprompted.

Deacon, who'd thought it a particularly quiet night, raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"In the Institute. So deep underground, you can't hear anything at all. If you're the only one in a room, you might as well be in a vacuum. The only time you hear something is if you're close to the generators, and then it's such a low hum. Even the scientists are quiet. And the synths don't talk at all, unless spoken to."

"Sounds cheery." The fire snapped at the end of his sentence, its flames reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses. "Morgan?" The woman tilted her head aside, ear poised towards his lips. "Did they do anything to you?"

Morgan looked away again, staring at the fire. She listened to the gentle sound of Donny's breathing, feeling her heartbeat match the rhythm. "I don't think so," she said at last. "I saw things. Lots of things." She blinked. "I know why they took my son." She exhaled, the raised lines of her scars casting eerie shadows across her face. "Sixty years ago. They needed unirradiated DNA to base the synths off of. They found out a baby had been preserved in one of the vaults. So they took it. He's still alive, and now he's the leader of the Institute. I met him."

"You met... Sean?"

Morgan nodded, staring dismally at the fire as a gust of cold wind shuddered against the side of the house. "My DNA is in every single synth ever made. Genetically, they're my grandchildren. And some are older than I am."

"Jesus." Deacon faltered. Then, after a moment: "What's he like?"

"My son?"

"Yeah."

"He's..." She fell silent for a few seconds as she put together the words. "He's the worst parts of me and Nate. My drive, my ambition, Nate's sense of faith and optimism. He thinks he's doing the right thing. With everything. The abductions, the replacement synths, the ruthless research. He thinks he's bettering humanity. He thinks the people in the Commonwealth aren't... worthy."

Deacon's eyes flickered down to the space between them. After a moment, he let his hand fall away from behind his head, brushing down her upper back as a gesture of comfort. "I'm sorry."

Morgan didn't react to his touch. "He knows I'm with - that I was with, the Railroad. He thinks I just used them to get to him. I don't know if he's right or wrong. I don't know how to feel, or what to do. I don't know if Des would let me remain an agent if she knew."

The man nodded slowly. "Has it changed your mind about anything?"

"No. No, it hasn't. Z1 - the synth I talked to about a rebellion - he wants freedom. You can see it in his eyes. When Sean says the synths aren't human, I know he's a liar. No, not a liar. Willingly ignorant. He chooses to ignore the humanity in the synths, and chooses to ignore anything that would upset his master plan. But..." She trailed off. "I don't know how long I can keep lying to my son."

Deacon toyed with the ends of her hair. It'd grown longer since she left, and after she'd taken out the bobby pins pinning it up, it dangled an inch or two longer than her shoulders. "I know that... my word doesn't mean much. Maybe more to you than to most people, and I appreciate that. And I don't know what's going to happen. I really don't. But, like I told you before. I'm in your corner. Always."

His words hung in the air a few moments before Morgan nodded, slow but decisive. "I'm gonna go back to the Institute," she said, with an air of finality to her voice. "Their scientists put some kind of chip in my Pip-Boy, I can go back and forth whenever I want to if I key into their special radio signal. I have to do something about this. I owe it, to... the Commonwealth. To the synths. Sean's my son, my... responsibility."

Deacon dropped his hand from her back. "You really think you want to do this?"

"I think it's the only way you and I might ever be able to rest easy." She nodded. "I'll come back when I can. I don't know what they'll ask me to do. I don't know how easy I'll be able to keep lying to them. But I have to try." Her eyes drew down, and she looked aside to gently run her hand over Donny's cheek. "I have to."

The fire burnt long into the night, aided by enough fuel to keep them warm until dawn. The Institute lurked, menacing and omnipresent, beneath the surface of the earth. Donny slept, relishing in the knowledge that he wouldn't be left alone again. and at some point it would need dealing with. Deacon was resolute, at last given some way to redeem himself, some role as Morgan's supporter and Donny's defender. And Morgan, with purpose at last, ready to choose her cause instead of being forced into it.

All the world hinged on their actions, but for the moment, the crickets sang and the stars twinkled like gems dangling on strings high above them. For one night, they rested, building themselves a home amidst the wreckage of what had been. Now, they looked to the future, and dreamed of what might be.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Donny dashed through a narrow alleyway, a herd of heavy footsteps charging after him. A startled cat yowled as he barreled past, and a spent syringe clattered against the bricks. Running up a pile of boxes and vaulting over the fence, he landed with a thump and a cloud of dust on the center street of Goodneighbor.

The angry voices at his back faded as he slipped through the crowd, pulling his cap down over his eyes. Around the corner and down a red-lit alley, Donny passed a red-faced man with a bottle in his hand, and a rather underdressed woman pressing him up against the wall. He didn't linger - adults who did those sort of things tended to get mad whenever a kid stuck around too long.

The window to the basement was still open, and Donny breathed a sigh of relief. Sucking in his stomach, he wriggled down through the tiny window, landing with a splash in a foul-smelling puddle. He gagged, waving a hand in front of his nose and kicking off his shoes, abandoning his socks with them and kicking them into a pile of debris. Someone must've peed through the window after he climbed out.

 _Ew_.

Donny carefully crept up the basement stairs and saw the guards standing by the front door, talking lowly to each other with their backs to the stairwell. Holding his breath and walking slow, he crept around the corner and into the foul-smelling bathroom. He scanned the fistful of papers he brought with him, then stuffed them all into his sleeve. Chin up, he opened the bathroom door, letting it swing around and bang against the wall to startle the guards.

They both narrowed their eyes. "What took you so long?" one asked.

Donny gave them a sour look. "That's none of your business. My dad says anybody who asks about little boys going to the bathroom is a creep."

The offending guard raised his hands, machine gun still dangling from his grip. "Whoa, kid, I didn't mean it like that, geez."

The boy stuffed his hands in his pockets and glowered at them as he headed for the stairs. "Well, it kinda smells in there. I wouldn't go in if I were you."

The guardsmen groaned. Donny ran up the stairs, wiping his hands on his faded t-shirt, feeling the rough wood of the floorboards slap against his feet as he ran. He hoped he wouldn't get a splinter. He ignored the guards beside the door and walked into Tubby Malone's office. All eyes turned to him, but he didn't flinch, instead sauntering up to Deacon's side and reaching for his hand, subtly passing the documents into Deacon's palm.

"What took you so long, kiddo?" Deacon prodded, fingers curling around the papers and slipping them into his sleeve. "Everything come out all right?"

Donny rolled his eyes and bit back a smile. "Yes, _dad_ ," he groaned, doing his best to sound snotty. "Everything's fine."

Tubby Malone - twin brother of renowned gangster Skinny Malone - leaned across the desk with a scowl on his face. The look wasn't pretty, though very few expressions looked appealing on his gaunt face. His flesh stretched around his skull like whoever made him ran out of skin halfway through. His crooked nose jutted out like a bird's beak, and his lips were a thin, colorless line with little scabs where he bit them too much. "Where're his shoes?" Tubby asked.

Donny met his gaze innocently. "They got dirty."

"In the bathroom?" The gangster quirked an eyebrow.

"It's _really_ nasty in there. You should have someone clean it up."

"Anyway," Deacon interjected, as Tubby's eyes narrowed, "are we done, here? I've made my statements, y'all've made yours, how's about we get down to business?" His Southern accent wouldn't have fooled anyone, Pre-War, but it did a fine job of confusing some tommygun-toting meatheads.

"Yeah, you've made your statements." Tubby's high, Bostonian accent dragged out the words. He was a tall, skeletal man, with a voice that sounded like he took too much helium. It would have been comical, if not for the cluster of heavily-armed men standing around his desk. "But I want proof. Real proof. Ownership don't mean shit if I don't see paper."

Deacon released a melodramatic sigh. "Well, I reckon you've earned it. You's a businessman, that much I can see, so I s'pose I'll afford you this courtesy." Deacon reached into his pocket as if retrieving the papers, but easily slid the crinkled document from his sleeve with a practiced flick of his wrist. "That enough proof for you?"

Tubby wrinkled his nose at the sight of the creased paper. "Did your Brahmin step on this? This looks like crap."

Deacon replied with an easy shrug of his shoulders. "Still legal, isn't it?"

Tubby ran his narrowed eyes up and down the sheet, black irises glittering as he looked for one excuse to turn his bodyguards' guns on the pair. But the seal looked genuine. He sighed, throwing the paper down on the desk, letting Deacon smoothly pick it back up. "Fine. _Fine_ , Mr. McGill, take your fuckin' property and get outta here. Give your boss my regards."

With a wave of his hand, two men unlocked a box sitting in the corner of Malone's office, wrenching a young man from inside it. The man, who couldn't have been older than twenty, flinched and whimpered, his dark bruises burning under the tight grips of Malone's men. The man wore just a set of wasteland overalls and black hair curled around his face in greasy tufts, tanned skin unblemished and his hazel-green eyes glimmering with fearful tears.

Donny felt Deacon's hand tighten around his. "We surely will, Mr. Malone," he sleezed, and patted Donny's shoulder. "Grab the cargo for me, will you?"

Donny nodded, then remembered to act sullen, so he shuffled over and tugged unkindly on the man's overall. The stranger flinched, then seemed to come to his senses, rising to his feet and following after the other men as Deacon waved a pleasant goodbye to Tubby and left the warehouse. The stranger kept his head down, chin to his chest like he wanted to disappear - or at least to go unnoticed.

As soon as the door closed behind them and they rounded a corner, Deacon's facade dropped. "Donny." The boy acted quickly, scrambling for the pack of supplies they'd stashed nearby. They got the man a cloak, food, and a pack full of supplies. Deacon explained the situation quickly - Railroad, Amari, safety - and guided the man outside Goodneighbor's walls without attracting attention. There waited one of Stockton's caravans.

The young man climbed aboard, and they rode off, heading back to Bunker Hill. Deacon sighed and wiped sweat from his brow. "All in a day's work, huh, Donny?"

Donny mimicked his movements, sighing and wiping in turn. "Sure is."

They shared a look, Donny giggled, and Deacon ruffled his hair. "Come on."

They slipped through their secret entrance into the Memory Den, and from there they snuck into the Hotel Redford. Removing a few loose panels, they shimmied down the elevator cables and dropped down into the second story hallway of the hotel. Deacon swiftly unlocked their hotel room, ushered them both inside, and locked the door behind him as Donny flopped back on the bed.

"And now we lay low," Deacon announced, kicking off his shoes with a satisfied sigh. He scratched his bald head and moved to the mirror, baring his teeth at himself and running his hand over the small coating of ginger-gray scruff that lined his cheeks. "Bring me that razor, will you?"

Donny did as he was asked, supplying the bar of soap and well-kept straight razor, then laid back on the bed and watched Deacon shave. "Tubby Malone won't get suspicious?"

"As far as he knows," Deacon said, dragging the blade down his cheek, "Bobby McGill and his son, Bobby McGill Junior, have disappeared after recovering their boss's missing sex slave. We lay low for a while, wait until Tubby leaves town to be safe, then move on to the next mission."

Donny shook his head like a dog, throwing off his blonde wig and exposing the mop of auburn hair underneath. Leaning over the side of the bed, he reached underneath for a comic book, then sat back up and flipped through its pages. After a moment, he looked up, brow furrowed. "Hey, Deacon?"

"Yeah?" Deacon grabbed a nearby towel and wiped his face clean, leaning in towards the mirror to make sure he hadn't missed a spot.

"What was your dad like?"

Deacon halted abruptly, still holding the cloth to his face. After a second, he set the cloth on the side of the basin and turned around. "Why would you ask me that?"

Donny shrugged, letting the comic book rest on his stomach. "You're pretty good at dad stuff. I mean, I don't think you've got any kids, so, uh, you had to have learned from _your_ dad."

Deacon considered this for a few moments, wiping his hands on his jeans a few more times than necessary before shaking his head clear sitting down. "Well, I... Geez, Donny." He puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled. "I haven't thought about my old man in years." Donny rolled onto his side, listening attentively. "He wasn't around much when I was a kid. He... He wasn't a bad guy, I don't think. He never treated my mom badly. I know I got my hair from him. I think he came around when I was little, but one day he just… stopped. I don't remember enough of him to miss him." Some unseen weight settled on Deacon's shoulders, old memories pressing heavy on his heart, and he frowned.

"Oh." Donny thought for a moment. "Well, you do a pretty good job, for someone who doesn't have any experience," he said, matter-of-factly.

Deacon raised his head. "You think so?"

"Mhm. You're pretty smart, and tell me lots of stories. You buy me comic books and snack cakes. You let me come along with you on missions." He grinned. "That's fun. You're real nice to me, and you let me stick around. That's good too." He pressed his lips together, and spoke softer, looking away and fiddling with the blankets. "I'm glad you're with me."

Deacon smiled. "Well, I'm glad you're with me too, Donny."

Donny smiled back, but hid his embarrassed blush behind the pages of his comic book. Deacon got up to clean off his straight razor, and Donny rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet in the air. After a moment, he piped up again. "Deacon?"

"Hm?"

"When do you think Morgan will come back?"

The older man sighed. "I don't know, kiddo. I know it's been a longcouple weeks. But she's busy trying to... do, something, I think. I'm sure she's got a plan."

Donny sighed, and pouted. "I just hope she's okay."

* * *

Morgan most certainly did not have a plan.

"I'm not pleased with the way you handled that synth operation in Libertalia, Mother," Sean said, delicately placing his teacup on the table after sipping.

Sean was… interesting. That's the most definite thing she could say about him. He had her dark, thick hair, though it had grown thin and wispy in his older years. He combed it over delicately, with just a smidgen of gel in the mornings to keep it neat. He had smile lines around his eyes, but the way those hazel irises looked at her, Morgan sometimes wondered if they were the product of plastic surgery. He was clean-shaven. Everything about him was clean. He looked like some well-dressed man you might see see advertising a vitamin for seniors. He looked like he ought to be fishing with his grandchildren, not running some villainous scientific think tank.

"Mother?"

She jumped. She'd missed the question. "Yes." He insisted on calling her that.

"Yes, you agree that it's inappropriate to negotiate with property?"

"No, I mean- I mean I meant to acknowledge your question." She shook her head. She hated this feeling of unease, of helplessness, of having her every move analyzed. How did Deacon live like this, taking identities on and off as easy as changing clothes? She could maintain a poker face, sure. But she couldn't pretend to be something she wasn't, much less stifle her firmly-held beliefs so they wouldn't be detected by Sean's probing gaze.

Sean hummed. "I asked you if you thought it was appropriate to negotiate with machines we are trying to recover as safely as possible. Imagine what might have happened if you continued your plea. It could have shot you. Its minions could have shot you. Your life is not expendable."

Morgan resisted the urge to call him out for so many things. Calling the synth an _it_ , not a _he_. Dividing lives into 'expendable' or 'not expendable.' Treating sentient beings like cattle. Her scars ached.

At her silence, Sean continued. "I realize that you used the Railroad's assistance to get here. But I would hope they hadn't swayed you with their 'liberty-minded' vitriol. The very fact that you're here implies you know better than they do."

So he didn't suspect her of deception. Unless he just wasn't saying it out loud. Shit. Deacon would be so much better at all this. What had he always told her? "They served my purpose at the time." _Mix the truth with the lies and it becomes harder to tell the difference_. "No one else was as close to the Institute. Not even the Brotherhood. I did what I had to."

"Believe me, I understand." The gentle, soothing tone in his voice made her stomach churn. "When you're someone as... determined, as you or I, we must oftentimes make certain sacrifices or compromises in order to accomplish our goals." He took another sip of his tea. "But you must understand, Mother. The synths are not to be negotiated with. They're not capable of it, especially not when they've malfunctioned like that. Many of these synths are simply victims of faulty programming, or insufficient training. Debating them only leads to violence."

Glory's face popped up in Morgan's mind. "I understand."

"Good." He dropped his cup again, and waved a hand. A dull-eyed synth stepped forward from a corner of the room, taking the tray and leaving the room without a word. "Tell me - how are you settling in? Are you enjoying your quarters? Your new clothes?"

After months of wearing worn leather and handmade cloth, the synthetic polyester-and-vinyl robes chafed her skin and gave her a rash. The weight of her weapons and armor had made her feel grounded, steady, kept her muscles dense and her senses sharp. This full-body robe distracted and delayed her reactions.

"It's very clean."

Sean chuckled. "Yes, I suppose compared to the Commonwealth, it is." His eyes ran over her face for a moment. "The BioScience wing informs me that you've turned down their offer for facial reconstruction. May I ask why?"

Morgan fought for a tactful answer. "It would be hard to explain, if I went back to the Commonwealth and looked entirely different."

"Then you do not plan to stay?"

"I didn't say that," Morgan replied, frustrated at her own lack of social skills. "But if I'm going to do missions for you, I may encounter people I've known and interacted with before. I'd rather avoid having to explain myself."

Sean nodded, considering her defense as he tapped his fingers against the table. "Why did you refuse the reconstruction when you first returned to America?" He smiled gently when her head snapped up. "Yes, I know all about that. We've got records on just about everything, and I have put some effort into learning about you and your Pre-War past. It is amazing, to think that I was born in such a world. Though I doubt it compares to anything we have here. But, please, I wish to hear your thoughts."

"I... I suppose I resented the military. They'd caused my suffering, I didn't want them to cover it up. I resented them for inflicting that experience upon me and then trying to make me look whole again."

"As I recall, you chose the experience."

Her eyes hardened. "It was that or have Nate die. That wasn't a choice at all."

Sean stared back at her, unfeeling. "You loved my father, then."

She blinked. "Yes." What kind of question was that? Of course she'd loved him. She'd never stopped.

Sean smiled. "Good." He rose, smoothing out his robe and running his fingers through his beard. "Then I'll leave you. In any case, the synth has been returned to us, and is being retrained with new, more appropriate programming in place. Hopefully we'll avoid future incidents." He turned his back to her as she rose.

 _Dismissed._

Morgan fled his office and let feet and mind wander. She felt restless, itching to run or fight or command. Anything that would grant her some kind of agency, something that would take away her looming sense of helplessness. She couldn't help but think that Sean was pulling all the strings, and that she was his puppet, forced to dance with the threat of his wrath like a knife to her throat.

If she could wish for anything, she'd wish that Deacon would appear, standing a few feet behind her as he always did, his eyebrows raised above his sunglasses as he waited for her to ask her question. Then he'd open his mouth and offer some kind of smiling reassurance, coupled with advice wiser than you'd expect, and topped off with a grinning joke that would make her shake her head and hide a smile.

If only.

"Mother."

The word jerked her from her thoughts. She stopped abruptly, swiveling her head around for the source of the noise. Her eyes landed on Z1 and hesitated, then she looked away quickly, trying not to give him away. She shook her head as if clearing her mind, and sat down on a nearby ergonomic bench, her skin prickling with unease.

Z1 slowed his pace with the mop, wiping it over the dirtless floor and bringing it to a shine. He spoke softly. "Did your meeting with Father go well?"

All the synths called her Mother. Though they came directly from Sean - Father, they called him - they must be aware that it was her genetics Sean possessed. They weren't allowed to address her at all in front of the scientists, but when among fellow synths or alone: _Mother_. Spoken in hushed, reverent voices, sometimes uttered breathlessly as they stared at her in awe. It made her skin crawl.

"He's going to ask me about the Railroad soon," she murmured, trying to keep her lips still. Sean had avoided asking directly for a few weeks now. But he was getting close. She saw it in the way he wrapped his hands around his cup and unconsciously leaned over the table when he brought up their involvement. Nate used to do that, too.

Z1 was silent for a moment. "What will you tell him?"

"A lie."

Z1 had no such reverence for her title. Respect, yes, but he burned with too much fire to be reverent. Tanned skin, deep blue eyes, and shaven-down blonde hair - he was a common laborer, designed to be silent and submissive. But when he looked at you, you could see the intelligence in his eyes, the way he burned with righteous indignation and the desire for freedom. No wonder he kept his head down. Meeting his eyes felt like a physical touch.

The synth gave her the smallest, most imperceptible of nods. "Liam has not committed."

Liam Binet. Desdemona's treasured "Patriot," an unnamed hero who teleported handfuls of synth out of the Institute. He turned out to be an innocent teenager who wanted to play the "good guy" without having to suffer. Liam had grown up benefiting from the system, and the idea of disrupting or destroying it would mean ending his way of life. But liberty without conflict is impossible. Z1 and Morgan understood that, but Liam was quickly proving to be more of a liability than an asset.

"Then we move on without him," Morgan said, staring out at the Institute courtyard. The whiteness of everything still hurt her eyes. There was no humanity in the Institute. No pictures of family members on desks, no traces of paint or debris where children played, no laundry hanging up to dry. Morgan could count on one hand the number of children she'd seen walking around. It seemed wrong.

"We'll need to start stockpiling weapons. I'm still gathering forces, but we need to be prepared when the time comes."

She had to be strong. For Deacon, for Donny, for all the synths that watched her with stars in their eyes and hope in their hearts. All she had to do was buy Z1 - and Liam, if he ever made up his mind - enough time to get a rebellion together. With enough people and resources, and once the Railroad was ready, they could launch their attack. They could end this.

"I can get you weapons," Morgan said at last. "When it's necessary, we'll be ready."

A humorless smile passed over Z1's face. "Good."


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Two months, Morgan had been in the Institute. Two months of introductions, tests, vaccinations, anxiety attacks, and everything else. Two months of sitting under Sean's intense, near omniscient gaze, hoping and praying he wouldn't find out the truth.

Still, he already knew too much about her. He reveled in trotting out pieces of her past, talking about the day she met Nate, or the day she found out she was pregnant. Every so often, he asked her about the Railroad, but she fielded those questions by saying her interactions with them were shrouded in secrecy, and that she only knew what they told her. If she followed up by mumbling about how much she missed her son, Sean would always preen, and let the topic change.

He was so pleased with his level of power over her. He insisted on calling her "Mother" and dressing her in his favorite colors, insisted on having her at his side while he made his speeches or had his meetings. He would ask her what she wanted to eat or drink, then answer for her before she could reply. "I know your favorite tea, of course," he'd say. Or, "Don't worry, I know all about your soft spot for certain foods." Sometimes he was right, and sometimes he was wrong. Morgan never corrected him.

It seemed that, so long as she played the part, Sean was content to believe that his loving mother would never go against him. Surely, his mother must be the most loyal of his courtiers. And for now, that assumption was all that kept Morgan alive and unsuspected.

"Tell me, Mother. What do you do when someone has stolen from you?"

"Stolen?" She froze. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think it's rather clear." Sean turned away from the window, both hands clasped behind his back. "If someone had taken your property. What would you do?"

Morgan took a breath to keep her hands from digging into the cold plastic of her chair. "I… suppose it depends on what was taken."

Sean hummed. "Then, I imagine you understand that Institute property is very valuable, and not often taken from us. We cannot react lightly if it happens."

Morgan twitched, her hidden pistol burning against her thigh. "Are you accusing me of… ?"

"Accusing you? No, of course not." His eyes crinkled up in the corners as he smiled. "We've kept careful tabs on your actions here. I know you've taken nothing. No, I am referring to the Railroad. In the time since you arrived, they have acquired several synths, synths that had recently gone missing." Sean turned back to stare out the window at the courtyard below. "They no doubt mean to 'free' these synths, in the delusion that they are somehow sentient beings. I was going to ask if you heard anything about this before you arrived."

Morgan's eye twitched. She wanted to be tactful, to let a lie drip from her tongue like honey, the way Deacon's stories always did. But her tongue was heavy and uncooperative, her mind blank. "I... had not. Their leader was very private and spoke in code as much as possible. They didn't talk about their other operations. They just wanted to get the Relay working."

Sean's fist clenched before he spoke. "Usually they are a minor nuisance, but lately they have become more bold. You saw what happened at Libertalia. They're taking more synths, synths that are defective and violent, and releasing them into the Commonwealth to wreak havoc."

"I thought you didn't care for the Commonwealth." The words came out before she could stop them. "I thought the whole point of creating synths was to replace impure peoples."

Sean looked back over his shoulder, sharp hazel eyes meeting hers. She flinched, her heart pounding. "That is an eventuality," he said at last, and looked back at the window. "Encouraging violence and depravity only furthers the damage in an already damaged world. Until we are ready to move forward with our plan, and restore the Commonwealth, allowing theft and murder to go unpunished is not viable. As it is, we know the location of the stolen synths, and need to re-acquire them before they are moved. I leave this task in your hands."

"You think that's wise?" Morgan replied, thinking quickly. "The Railroad might see me and report that I'm working for you. I wouldn't be able to return to them or interact with them again."

"And you'd do such a thing?" Sean turned to face her. "Seek them out again?"

That had not gone the way she wanted. Morgan stifled a shaky stutter. "I don't see why not. It might not be the best move at the moment, but it's... an eventuality."

Sean smiled. "I'm happy you think so. The synths are currently being stored at Bunker Hill. It's important that we act on this soon, before the Railroad has any indication that we've tracked them." He paused, then continued. "It would be preferable that the Brotherhood of Steel don't find out the location of the synths, either. Their presence would complicate matters."

"I understand."

"You'll have a contact waiting for you just outside Bunker Hill," Sean nodded. "They'll have your back if necessary. Return to CIT when you are finished." He smiled again. "Good luck, Mother."

* * *

The Courser that greeted her a few blocks from Bunker Hill was less than personable.

"I've been waiting for you."

Something about the Coursers' voices always disturbed her. Most synths were laborers, designed for a specific purpose and pre-programmed with the necessary knowledge. But Coursers were _taught_. Something about their purpose being too complicated for ones and zeros. They were built to be physically flawless, but had to be molded, beaten down and built back up again. But the way they talked, and their inborn blind loyalty, left Morgan wondered if Coursers were as sentient and free-willed as the other synths. And, if so, if they could be liberated like the other synths.

But, she didn't feel like trying to convert one anytime soon.

"I can't make the Relay any faster," she replied, temper flaring. "What's the plan?"

"Our targets are inside," X4-18 said. "Four synths under Railroad protection. Majority of the settlement is uninvolved, and are expected to run for cover. The situation appears to have escalated." As if on cue, a vertibird roared in the sky as it flew through the sky above them, heading towards the increasing gunfire in Bunker Hill.

"I was hoping to show up before all this went down," Morgan remarked, frowning at the sky.

"A covert approach is likely impossible at this point," X4 continued. "I suggest we take the front entrance, find the synths, and Relay back directly. No chance for a private teleport." X4 pressed two fingers to a black dot just his ear. "Requesting backup relay. Be ready on my mark."

His eyes fell on Morgan, and she twitched. "Let's go."

The steadying weight of her weapons and armor made Morgan feel almost at home. Even the sound of gunshots was more friendly than the dull silence of the Institute. Morgan had almost forgotten how it felt to have the breeze on her face, the wind in her hair. She took a moment to appreciate the way the sky stretched out above them and the sun shone against the aged brick buildings.

She never thought she'd miss the Commonwealth.

X4 walked silently, laser rifle in hand, his face expressionless as he followed her. The two crept up to the outskirts of the Hill, and Morgan scanned the scene. A handful of security synths zapped in with a burst of blue lightning, wielding laser rifles and moving mechanically to cover. Brotherhood vertibirds dropped off soldiers and medics, all in neat military formations. Railroad soldiers weaved around the battlefield, with more and more agents swarming through narrow alleys to form a pincer.

X4 fired at Brotherhood and Railroad people alike, shooting with superhuman accuracy and dodging returning fire by mere inches. Morgan opened her mouth to catch his attention, maybe to form a battle strategy amidst the chaos, when two familiar faces peeked out around a corner.

 _Fucking hell._

Donny and Deacon had matching pairs of sunglasses, very little armor, and some dinky guns they'd probably picked up from Tom's pile of surplus weaponry. How dare Deacon bring Donny here? What the fuck were they thinking? They were going to be killed. They were going to be killed, and then Morgan would lose her mind.

Donny peeked his head out too far around a corner. X4 turned, and aimed.

The next thing she knew, Morgan was holding a smoking shotgun and X4-18 lay, headless, on the ground, bits of brain splattered across the pavement. Donny hadn't noticed. A pale hand reached out and grabbed his mop of hair, dragging him behind the corner. Someone was _definitely_ going to die.

Morgan dashed across the street and jogged between the buildings, weaving her way through Boston's crowded crevices and track down her menfolk while the battle raged on. She stumbled upon them by crashing over some piled up barrels, and the two of them jerked in surprise. Donny's hand twitched for a pistol at his belt. He shouldn't even _have_ a pistol. "Deacon," Morgan said. She wanted to growl his name, really send some fear into his heart. But seeing them both made her anger disappear.

Deacon didn't say anything, just stood in shocked silence as Donny made a noise of joy and rushed forward, charging into the hug. Morgan clasped her arms around him, holding the embrace for a few moments. Then, she pulled away, brow furrowed in worry as she fussed with his hair and scanned his face and limbs, searching for injuries. "Are you alright? What are you doing here?"

"I'm great!" Donny chirped. "Deacon and I are coming to the battle 'cause Des wants all available agents on the field to protect these synths, and Deacon wanted to check it out but didn't have anywhere to drop me off 'cause we're in a hurry, so I got to come along and now we're going into this building and Deacon's gonna try to snipe some Brotherhood fuckers-"

"Language," Deacon interrupted.

"-some Brotherhood jerks, and I've got this-" Donny waved a pistol in the air, "-and I actually killed a dog with it the other day and we got to have dog for dinner but I was kinda sad because one of the kids in Goodneighbor has a dog that's really nice but the dog tasted really good so now I don't know if I should be friends with dogs or eat them but then Deacon said cats are pretty tasty but I don't know if he's lying about that because I like cats too even if they bite and scratch sometimes and-"

"Donny." Morgan clasped his shoulders, giving him a reassuring smile. "I'd love to hear you tell me all about it, but we're kind of in the middle of a battle, so we can't stop and talk."

"Oh. Right." Donny deflated. But his eyebrows rose inquisitively as Morgan stood, smile vanishing and replaced by a glower.

"You let him come along on this?" She asked, glaring at Deacon. "You gave him a _gun_?"

Deacon fidgeted. "Well, I mean - Glory and everyone's been teaching him how to shoot, and since we've been going on missions I figured - "

"You've been going on _missions_?"

"I did say that, didn't I."

"For christ's sake, Deacon, I thought you'd leave him at HQ or something, drop him off at a farm or just go live in a log cabin. I didn't expect you to drag him along on _missions_ and almost _die_."

"I mean, we haven't been in that situation so far, it's been pretty quiet- "

"Oh, sure. Sure, it's always quiet, until you get _shot_. What if he had gotten hurt, Deacon? I'm six hundred miles under the fucking ground, I'm trusting you to take care of him, and instead, you take him out on missions and give him a gun and bring him to a goddamn _battle_!"

Deacon shifted uneasily, searching for his defense. Despite the cover of his sunglasses, Morgan could tell he was avoiding her gaze. "We didn't expect you to be here," he finished lamely.

Morgan threw a hand over her face, summoning another bout of rage when Donny sidled up to her. "Morgan, I'm sorry you were worried," he said, lacing his fingers through hers. "Deacon just wanted to take care of me while you were gone, and I feel safer with one of you guys than by myself."

Morgan opened her mouth, then closed it again. Then opened, then closed. She glanced up, and saw Deacon wearing a shit-eating grin, the kind of self-assured smile of someone who knows they're off the hook. She narrowed her eyes at Donny. "You spend too much time with Deacon."

Donny's look of innocence vanished, replaced by a pleased smile. "Am I allowed to stay?"

Morgan looked between the pair before throwing her hands up. "Fine. Sure, whatever. But!" she interrupted, jabbing a finger at them. "You're both staying in HQ from now on."

They groaned. "And have Des get on our case again?" Deacon pointed out.

"Yes. I don't give a shit. You're not running around with no heavy to protect you, doing missions and getting yourselves killed and giving me panic attacks. You stay in HQ until I say so. Are we clear?"

Deacon flashed her an assuaging smile. "Yes, boss."

Morgan wagged her finger at him. "None of that shit. I'm tired. And I'm gonna have to go fuckin' save these synths and then somehow explain to my son why I couldn't 'acquire' them and bring them back to the Institute. That's gonna be fuckin' _fun_." Morgan ran a hand over her face, then leaned down and press a kiss to Donny's temple. "Don't die, Donny."

Donny smiled, and Deacon raised an eyebrow. "Infiltration going well?" the agent asked.

Morgan sighed. "I'm just surprised I'm not dead yet."

Deacon nodded and pulled his bobby pin out of the lock on a nearby building's back door. He jiggled the handle and it clicked, swinging open. "I'll be up in a minute, Donny. Clear out any ghouls if you see any."

"On it!" Donny ducked inside and raced up the stairs, brandishing his pea-shooter. Morgan made a helpless noise and waved after him, then sighed as the door swung shut.

As soon as the door closed, Deacon's cordial expression dissipated. "Are you okay?"

Morgan blinked, not expecting his sudden change in tone. But, with the boy gone, the sounds of battle seemed much louder, and the anger that had given her strength faded away. "No," she murmured.

Deacon sighed and leaned back against the wall, letting the silence hang between them. "How long until you think we can go forward with the revolution?" he asked.

"Not long," Morgan admitted. "Z1 is cementing his followers, preparing them for the fight, and trying to keep it secret from the synths that are loyal to the Institute. I've given them all the secret supplies I can. Sean doesn't suspect me, as far as I know. Des should start gathering her resources."

Deacon nodded. "Then... it'll be over." Saying it aloud seemed to startle him. "We'll be done."

"We'll be done," Morgan repeated, nodding. They looked at each other, processing the enormity of that statement. Neither of them were totally ready to face the end of their journey. Morgan fidgeted, unusual for her.

Deacon put his hand on the door handle. "I'm gonna go upstairs and make myself useful as a sniper. I'll keep Donny out of your hair."

A flicker of a smile passed over her face. She smiled. "Thanks." She swallowed. "Deacon?"

He hesitated. "What?"

"Just…" She clenched her hands into fists. "Don't die. Okay?"

"I won't." He smiled at her, and opened the door, revealing the dark interior within. "I promise."

Morgan watched him go inside, and waited until his footsteps faded away. Then she moved on.

Leaving the alleyway, the battle roared louder. No more vertibirds flew overhead, bearing human cargo of armored soldiers, but more synths had teleported in, walking past her without attacking. The Railroad agents avoided eye contact and shot around her, not at her, trying not to give her away. The Brotherhood fired some potshots at her, but they were busy attacking the other two factions. If she wanted, she could stroll right into the center of the Hill and complete her mission. So she did.

Gun out, she strolled through the front door and found Stockton's secret room, a basement hidden under a rug under a trunk. She descended the rickety ladder into the fluorescent-lighted room. Now, underground, the battle sounded like thunder, low and rumbling and far away. She found four synths cowering in a corner, letting out despairing whimpers when she approached.

"I'm not here to hurt you," she said, raising a reassuring hand. "I'm not going to take you back." Searching through the various trunks and boxes in Stockton's basement, she found his supplies, the pre-packaged survival kits they gave to fresh synths. "Here," she said, and helped them shimmy out of their Institute gowns and into fresh clothes, arming them with rifles and helping them out of the basement.

The Bunker Hill residents all hid in their homes or bunkhouse rooms, leaving the center of town empty and relatively safe as the fighting waged on. Morgan told the synths to run to the top of the Bunker Hill spire, where they could pose as hiding drifters. Stockton would recognize them when the fighting was over. Then, she said, they could get a ride on one of Stockton's caravans and flee.

A few subtle shots taken at some synths and Brotherhood soldiers on her way out tipped the battle in favor of the scattered Railroad agents. The other factions began to flee, and Morgan saw Deacon's scope winking at as she walked out of the Hill.

She waved goodbye, and headed to CIT.

* * *

A message on her radio told her to move to the roof, so she did, ascending the crumbling staircases and reaching the top as the sun hit the horizon and began sinking into the ground. Sean stood, alone, on the edge of the roof, hands clasped behind his back. He spoke when he heard her footsteps.

"You know, in all my years, I've never set foot outside the Institute. Not once, since the day they brought me here. I've never had a reason. But now... this just confirms the truth I've always known. The Commonwealth is dead. There's no future here. The only hope for humanity lies below."

Morgan looked out, and saw what Sean saw. The sun cast a orange-gold glow over the blue steel skyscrapers and red brick buildings, rusted cars dotting the roads and piles of rubble stacked up in the streets. As the sun went down, the world was peaceful for a while, when respectable people went to the bar or to bed, and the raiders came out and rioted under the cover of darkness.

But she also saw the pockets of civilization. She saw Bunker Hill, recovering from the damage from hours ago. North, over the hills and yellow-green grass, Sanctuary was flourishing. Across the river were an array of small settlements, plus Goodneighbor and Diamond City, all filled with decent people trying to get by. The Commonwealth was not dead. Just not as clean as Sean might want.

"I don't think it's that bad," she said, taking a moment to enjoy the sunset.

"Perhaps not to you. But to me, this... puts things in perspective. I know that, in your mind, I was kidnapped from that Vault. But in truth, the Institute rescued me. It saved me from a life in this... wasteland. Both of us, really."

"... I wouldn't say I benefited from them," she stated, without feeling. "They didn't ask me if I wanted to give up my baby. They just took you and Nate from me."

"My father was... an unfortunate casualty," Sean said, slowly. "I was the ultimate source of uncorrupted pre-war DNA. I was too valuable to risk losing. Our cause demanded that I be taken by any means necessary. Though, sometimes... I wonder, what it would have been like, to grow up with parents." He turned and looked out at the city again. "I'll admit, when I had you released from Vault 111, I had no expectations what you'd survive out here, in all this."

"What?" Morgan jerked back, brow furrowed. "You had me released?"

Sean met her eyes. "You didn't know? You had been kept alive as a back-up in case I turned out to be inadequate for the project. As I aged, I... wanted to see what you'd do, if released, thinking that you'd lost your child. You were set free. The child version of myself, the synth, was used as a way to lure you along when you ran out of avenues to pursue me. I've been fascinated with the results."

Morgan's eyes flashed. "You... you did all this? You released me. The life support systems on the other pods failed. You killed my neighbors. The others, from before the war, you let them die. You led me on, you put me through this, you made me what I am. You let me think I had a chance at finding my son." Her anger built into a white-hot fury. "What kind of person would _do_ that?" she shouted.

Sean looked down at the ground, pressing his lips together before confessing. "A dying one."

Morgan's heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"There are some things," Sean said, sighing, "that even the best of medicines cannot fix. Certain dangers, associated with living a life underground, causing unusual health issues. I am not young, but normally sixty is not close to death in the Institute. However, I... find I do not have much time left. I thought, perhaps, that the person who gave birth to me would be most qualified to take my place. That they would share my personality, my values - that they'd do my legacy proud."

Morgan blinked. "Sean, what are you suggesting?"

"I brought you here to become Director," Sean said, facing her earnestly as he outstretched his hands. "I'm sorry you still resent what the old Institute did to me and my father. But I truly believe that you have the drive to guide the Institute to greatness. The synths are nearing perfection. My time is short, but you - you were driven enough to spent nearly a year in this wasteland, doing whatever it took to find me. If anyone is worthy of taking my title, it's you."

"Sean, I..." Morgan took a step back, her lips parted.

"No. I know." Sean looked away. "And now that Bunker Hill has gone awry, it will be even harder to convince the others that you are worthy." He sighed. "I truly hope my faith is not misplaced."

A heavy silence hung between them, as if a physical brick wall had sprung up to divide them. "I'll need time to think about this," Morgan croaked at last.

"As expected." He pressed his fingers to the black dot under his ear. "One moment." He sighed. "Please, do think about it. The Institute has so much to offer, even if you think it is not perfect. You could do so much as its leader. You would make me proud." He pressed the dot again. "Please."

Blue lightning struck, and then he was gone.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Morgan stared into her sleeve, feeling her eyes strain against the unnatural shade of whiteness. More and more, she loathed the pureness of the Institute. With the white walls, so bright they hurt her eyes. Or the ways the lights only dimmed when it was time to sleep, so you had no dark places to hide in. There were no nooks, no crannies, no dark and unlit corners where she could rest. It felt like she had a spotlight on her all the time. Eyes and ears hidden in the walls, always watching. Always listening.

The other scientists gathered around the table droned on. While Sean encouraged her to sit in on his meetings before, now they had become mandatory. He never used that word, of course, but the question behind his eyes was implicit. _Why would you refuse me, unless you do not love me?_ Morgan couldn't take that chance. So she went to every meeting, answering what was asked of her, offering her opinion when Sean requested it.

"Sean's right," she said. "We should ready ourselves against the Brotherhood. Just in case."

"Sean's right," she said. "The synths need more discipline. To protect them, and us."

"Sean's right," she said. "The Institute really is a marvel."

Sean preened.

Still, though. She hated these dull, inane meetings, full of squabbling tyrants. At this point, she'd rather be out with Coursers, "recovering" lost synths and wheedling Patriot to commit one way or the other. But the revolution was close. She just had to grin and ber it until they could make their move.

"Ms. Morgan. Apologies, but I have an urgent message from Z1-14."

Morgan looked up, blinking quickly to restore her focus. "Hm?" The other scientists paid the synth no mind. They never did.

"Your quarters have flooded, ma'am. There is danger of extensive damage to your personal effects." The synth met her gaze calmly. He didn't look at the floor or her ear to avoid eye contact. Instead, he looked her straight on. A risky, telling move, especially here.

"I see. I'll be down right away." Morgan cleared her throat, tapping the table to draw the room's attention. "Something's come up. Don't wait for me." One or two of them inhaled to express dissent, but Morgan fled the room before they could stop her, dashing to her quarters as quick as she dared. "What's going on?" she asked, addressing the synth waiting for her.

"What took R5 so long to reach you?" Z1 breathed. His usual impassive facade had cracked - he seemed out of breath, his eyes wide, tension thick in his back and shoulders. "You must act now. The Brotherhood of Steel has discovered the location of the Railroad."

Morgan froze. Her mouth hung open, and it took her a second to choke out a reply. " _What_?"

"A friend in the SRB overheard something. She smuggled the message to me. We can't get any more details - even just getting that to me put her in grave peril."

"I-" Morgan dropped her eyes from his face to his chest, trembling. "I have to warn them."

"You must." Z1 nodded. "I was hoping for more time to organize our rebellion, but it is clear we cannot delay. Once you secure the Railroad, tell your people we are ready to fight. You must go, now."

The clear command gave Morgan enough clarity to shake her head and take a breath, standing upright and nodding back. "Cover for me. I'll be as fast as I can."

Z1 swallowed. "Go."

* * *

"And that, Donny, is how you cheat at poker," Deacon said, showing his cards with a flourish.

The ten-year-old frowned. "But what if you don't have sunglasses?"

"Well, then, obviously you need to buy some." The older man shrugged, leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head.

Glory scowled, flinging her cards across the table. "Can't we ever play a normal game, for once? You know, where the rest of us stand a chance?"

"No can do, compadre." Deacon flashed her a grin. "I wasn't cheating. This time. I swear."

"Having sunglasses _is_ cheating. Poker's all about the tells, you can't just hide your eyes and expect not to have unfair advantages."

Deacon grinned. "I can't help it if you fondle your mini-gun every time you have a bad hand."

"I do not _fondle_ my-"

"Donny!" Morgan barreled into the room, the door swinging open and slamming against the wall behind her. She searched the room with wild eyes until her gaze landed on Donny, then rushed forward to pull him into a hug. "Donny," she said again, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

"Fixer? What's going on?" Des came around the planning table, brow furrowed in confusion. Glory and Deacon rose from their seats, eyeing the embracing pair. The other gathered agents looked up from their work, glancing at each other curiously.

Morgan pressed kisses into Donny's hair, then relinquished him, one hand still clasped possessively to his shoulder. "Des," she gasped, "the Brotherhood are coming."

Shock and fear rippled through the room, summoning whispers and gasps from all corners. Desdemona's eyes widened. "Are you certain?"

"Z1 has a contact in the SRB. I don't know how much time we have, so I came as fast as I could." Morgan's eyes flickered from Des, to Donny, to Glory, and finally to Deacon. Her shoulders her relaxed, throat bobbing as she swallowed. She lingered on him perhaps a moment too long, then turned back to Des. "We need to move quickly. Once we're safe, Z1 wants to go ahead with the rebellion."

"He does?" The alpha's eyebrows shot into her forehead. "After this, we may not have the resources. We'll need time."

"We don't _have_ time, Des! And not- _Especially_ not for this argument!"

As Morgan threw her hands up, Tinker Tom's voice wafted over. "Des, I found something." Everyone fell silent. "Our surveillance along the Trail and around base says that we've got bogeys incoming. Big ones. Lots of Power Armor and big guns. ... It's Brotherhood, Des."

A beat passed. "Then there's no time to waste." Desdemona took a breath to summon her strength. "All of you! Grab what you can - weapons, armor, supplies. Prepare to evacuate. Move!"

As the agents rushed to action, Morgan went to Deacon, one arm still around Donny's shoulders. She fumbled through her things, soon putting out the silenced pistol he'd given her before she went to the Institute for the second time. It looked like she'd gotten dressed in a hurry, throwing on her things without her usual need for organization. "Here," she said, and pressed the gun into his hand. "You'll need it more than I do. Stay safe." Her hand tightened around his. "Protect Donny."

Deacon took the weapon, Morgan's palm still resting over his own. "I will. Be careful."

The two parted. Morgan raced to the barracks, helping the others check the security measures and set up cover, handing out guns and pieces of armor. Deacon took Donny's hand and held it tight, slipping an arm around the boy's shoulders and pulling him aside. "Do you remember how to use this?" he asked, holding out the silenced pistol. Donny nodded. "Then take it. I want you to hide, and if someone comes near you, you shoot them in the head or knees, understand?"

The boy swallowed hard, both hands clasped around the pistol. "Uh-huh." His voice shook, and Deacon could feel him trembling.

"We're going to be okay, okay?" Deacon brushed locks of red hair from Donny's face, pulling him into a short hug and squeezing him tight. "When you hear shooting, hit the deck and get behind cover. Just like we practiced. Everyone's right here."

Donny nodded. With his help, Deacon collaborated with the other agents, packing up everyone's things and spreading them out around the agents, making sure no one person held too much. Terminals and archives were destroyed or transferred to holotapes hidden in agents' belongings. People armed themselves to the teeth. Armor was scarce, but they'd already outfitted everyone with ballistic weave. They'd be fine. They had to be.

Dust showered from the brick ceiling as explosions rang out, prompting a roar of shouts and screams. "They've blocked off the back door!" someone shouted. So much dust and grime clouded the air, it looked like someone had set off a fog machine.

"Split up!" Des's voice called. "Glory, lead a group to the front entrance and hold out there! The rest of you - hold off the attack! If we can stop the pincer, we can make a stand!"

Then the first wave came. The faint, tell-tale whirr of a gatling laser gun echoed down the hall, then a barrage of red heat flew through the air, taking first blood. Morgan gripped the back of Donny's neck and yanked him to the floor with her, Deacon following suit a heartbeat after. The three of them cowering behind a pushed-over desk, the rumble of gunfire and pained shouts rattling the walls. Donny squeezed his eyes shut and clung to Donny, and Morgan vaulted over the front of the desk, firing her shotgun into a soldier's helmet. A gory gurgle erupted from the power armor's speakers, and a hot gush of blood dripped down the armor's torso, its wearer crumpling to the floor.

Donny curled into a ball, shielded by Deacon's body, wincing every time Deacon's rifle fired. Deacon and some others held the back, defending the front-liners from the soldiers trying to creep around the edges and flank them. Morgan stood at the front alongside Glory and the other heavies, bearing back the army of soldiers crammed into that narrow hallway. If they couldn't hold that doorway, they'd be overwhelmed in seconds.

Eventually the wave ended, the flow of soldiers stemming. But they could still hear shouting and footsteps, the heralding cry of reinforcements. Tinker Tom pushed everyone aside and chucked a handful of explosives into the evacuation tunnel. He squeezed his eyes shut, fingers in his ears, and shouted for everyone to do the same. A few seconds later, a final explosion rang out, dirt showering from the ceiling as the walls crumbled in, blocking off the tunnel.

People coughed and waved away the dust, grime sticking to their sweaty hands and faces. A quick headcount revealed no casualties. Wounds, burns, and bullet holes, but no casualties. Yet. "Our only way out is the church," Desdemona announced, addressing the crowd. "Glory and her people were guarding the entrance, but we don't know if they've been overwhelmed. We've got to move."

Morgan wondered if everyone else noticed the quaver in their alpha's voice, how her lips faltered on Glory's name. But they marched to the front entrance, Morgan still standing at the front. "Wait," she commanded, and creaked open the front door, peeking out. Her voice caught in her throat, and she pushed the door open completely.

Blood spattered the floors and walls. Brotherhood corpses lined the floor, some lying on top of each other like fallen-over dominos. So many lay dead, it had created almost a barricade in front of the doorway, from Glory's valiant efforts not to let a single one inside. Railroad bodies mixed with the Brotherhood, lifeless eyes splattered with blood. Theirs or the enemy's, no one could tell. And Glory sat in the corner, minigun steaming at her side, one arm wrapped around her middle as blood seeped through her clothes. Her brown skin was rapidly going off-color, turning a sickly ashen green. Strands of fair hair hung over her face, beads of sweat dripping from them.

Desdemona let out a faint, painted noise, one very few people heard. Morgan saw her hands shaking, lower lip starting to quiver. Morgan knew. She cleared her throat and started barking orders, telling the agents to go upstairs, clear out any remaining Brotherhood forces. The Brotherhood would be regrouping soon, sending for reinforcements if they had any. They had to move fast. And so the group marched on, save for Deacon and Donny. Those two waited beside Morgan. Donny clung to Deacon's side, and Morgan rested her hand on his upper back, her palm warm against his trembling skin.

When the room was empty, Desdemona went forward, stepping over and around the corpses to reach Glory's bloodstained body. The other agents had said goodbye or wept for her on their way out. Desdemona did not cry yet. She knelt beside her lover, taking Glory's rough, bloody hand in her own calloused pale one. Above them, combat thundered, bullets riddling the walls and people shouting in pain as the last of the Brotherhood's forces were weeded out.

A faint, cocky smile curved Glory's lips. "None of them got past me," she said, chuckling weakly. "The rest of you should be able to clear them out and get to safety. That's what matters." Desdemona's shoulders shook with stifled sobs. Glory softened. "Des, don't. We knew this was a risk. We knew… this might happen."

Des reached, cupping Glory's cheek, letting strands of white hair tickle her fingers. From behind, Morgan couldn't see the expression on her face. The alpha murmured lower than anyone could hear. The two women whispered to each other, eyes all aglow with sadness and longing, until at last Glory called Morgan and her menfolk over.

"I know I give you a lot of shit," she began. "But... without you, without this place, I'd still be in that prison, doing... grunt work for the SRB. I know I don't say it enough, but…" Her breathing became even more labored, and a fresh gush of blood oozed from her jacket. The wound had cut too deep - injecting a stimpack now would just create more blood and prolong her death, not fix the wound. "Fix, you're... you're the best thing that ever happened to this place, to these people. Without you, we wouldn't... we wouldn't even stand a chance of getting into the Institute." She swallowed the blood creeping up her throat, and spoke in a hoarse voice. "Promise me you'll free them. All of them."

"I promise, Glory," Morgan whispered. "We all promise."

She nodded, leaning back against the bricks with a relieved sigh. "Take care of yourself, Deeks. I'd hate to meet you in hell… anytime soon."

Deacon swallowed, eyes unreadable above his sunglasses. He raised two fingers to his brow, offering a small salute. "I will."

And, at last, Glory fixed her eyes on Donny, with a faint smile. "Stay cool, big guy. Make… these guys proud. Shoot… some Institute fuckers for me."

Donny, who'd held out this entire time, couldn't hold back a choked sob. "I will. I promise."

Glory smiled. Tears glimmered in the corners of her increasingly glassy eyes. But her face contorted in pain or fear. She gripped Desdemona's hand tighter, moving her lips to form her last words in a rasping whisper. "I love you, Des." And then she went still, the light in her eyes fading away. Desdemona made her first audible noise. A sharp, despairing noise, and she clutched Glory's still-warm hand tighter, burying her face in the bloody palm.

The four agents sat there for a few moments, letting grief wash over them as Desdemona sobbed quietly, letting her tears drip down Glory's skin. Morgan was the first to collect herself, though her eyes weren't dry either. She murmured. "Des. We have to go."

"I... I..." Desdemona spoke in brief gasps, fighting not to hyperventilate. "Yes." A shudder visibly ran through her, until she went cold and still, rising stiffly. Morgan helped her to her feet, and they walked up into the church. Just before they entered the main hall, Des stopped, closing her eyes and taking a deep, steadying breath. She wiped her face clean of emotion until she was stern and untouchable. Save for the dried streaks of tears parting the dirt on her face, there was no sign of the grieving woman behind her mask.

The main hall of the church looked much less peaceful than when Morgan had first entered it, all those months ago. Pews had been knocked over and shot through. Corpses hung over the balconies and littered the floor. Blood seeped into the wood, staining the dusty boards a deep, unnatural red-brown. Debris was everywhere.

An agent wrapped in bandages approached them. "We've cleared the church, Des," they said. "We've got enough people, enough time. We're ready to go on your command."

"Mercer," Morgan murmured, behind Des's shoulder. "Mercer could hold us for a while."

The alpha nodded. Without showing weakness, she raised her chin and spoke. "We've killed the last of them. And... most of us, are still standing." She hesitated, but did not falter. "The Brotherhood underestimated us, badly. Their next attack will be far, far worse. So we do the unexpected."

"The unexpected?" Morgan's brow furrowed, and she moved to stand in front of Desdemona. "What do you mean? We need to get out of here, regroup, get ready to help Z1 finish the rebellion."

"We can't do that if the Brotherhood is hunting us to extinction," Des said, her tone cutting, eyes cold. "There is no other option. Regrouping would be doing exactly what we did after the attack on the Switchboard. And we have even fewer resources now. There's a big possibility they may find us even sooner if we build up another headquarters. We're out of time. We must eliminate the Brotherhood as a threat, now. And the key to that is destroying the Prydwen."

"Des, you can't be serious," Deacon interjected, standing off to the side with one arm wrapped around Donny's shoulders. "That was just an idea. We never even considered putting that into action."

" _You_ never considered putting that into action," Des snapped. "As for the rest of us, we understood that sacrifices have to be made if we're going to win this war."

"Wait, hold on, what idea?" Morgan interjected. "What plan is this?"

"Operation Red Glare." Desdemona said coolly, fixing her gaze on Morgan.

"What?" Tinker reeled, eyes widening. "But Red Glare requires a Brotherhood vertibird!"

Desdemona continued without breaking eye contact. "Then Fixer will get you one."

"No- what the hell are you asking me to do?" Morgan exclaimed. "This was never discussed!"

"There's no time for discussion, agent. And there's no time for disobeying orders. This is necessary, and if it is not done, then you put us all in danger."

"What's necessary? Killing kids?" Deacon stepped forward, bringing Donny along for emphasis. "Red Glare was just an idea. A plan we hadn't fleshed out yet. If we were ever going to flesh it out at all! The Prydwen has kids on it, Des, is that what you want to do? Blow up that zeppelin and kill children? Innocents?"

"They chose their side!" Desdemona shouted, wild and unhinged.

"Don't you _fucking_ yell at him!" Morgan snapped, shoving Des's shoulder.

"Are you going against my orders?" Des hissed, coming nose to nose with Morgan. "You're not a traitor, Fixer. And this isn't the time for moral dilemmas. They've killed our people. They've killed-"

"They've killed Glory." Morgan spat, meeting Desdemona's eyes without fear. "They killed Glory, and that's why you're being a fuckin' cunt. They killed your girlfriend, and now you want to slaughter innocents to get some kind of sick revenge."

All the rage fled from Desdemona's face, leaving her pale and shocked. "I..."

"Yeah, we all fucking knew. You weren't being scandalous, Des. Glory's not subtle, and we all knew what was going on. You're the only one who tried to put some kind of pretense up about it. So, what. Now you want revenge? I've been there, and I know it's not the answer. Glory will still be gone, no matter what you do. And killing kids and innocent people will only go against our ideals."

Des curled her hands into fists. A few seconds passed, the room deathly silent while the two women stared at each other. "Sometimes sacrifices have to be made," Des said at last. "What solution do you propose, then? Something needs to be done, and we don't have a lot of time. Saving every innocent in that zeppelin will take time, and effort, and resources that we do not have."

"Then I'll do it. You already wanted me to blow the damn thing up, I'll just do it my way. It'll take longer, but at least we'll all know we're not child murderers." Morgan took a few steps closer. "I've gone to war, Desdemona. Seen good men die for stupid reasons, because people like you decided they wanted vengeance or power. Pulling the 'greater good' card does no one any favors. If you want to say we're the good guys, then we have to act like it." She swallowed. "We're not them."

Des stared back, her eyes searching Morgan's. Then, at last, her chin dropped. "I'll take the others and regroup," she said quietly. "You do what you must. Take Deacon. If you do it your way, I don't know how much help we can give, but we can look after Donny for you until you return. _If_ you return." And she walked away. The other agents glanced at one another, unsure what to do. But, one after another, they filed out of the church, sparing Morgan apologetic looks as they followed Des.

Donny hesitated. "Morgan?" he asked, his voice soft and unsteady. The woman bit back a sudden lump in her throat. She kneeled and pulled Donny into her arms, hugging him as tight as she could. Donny shook in her grasp, but held back just as tight, small sobs bubbling up his throat. "You're going to leave again," he said, once she pulled away.

Something ached in her chest. Morgan nodded, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "You have to go with the others," she explained, her throat tight. "I'll come back again. I promise. We'll come get you. And you've got the others. You're not going to be alone again." She took Donny's hand, the one still clutching his pistol. "You keep this with you, always. This will keep you safe, so long as you're careful with how you use it." Her tongue rested on her teeth, about to say something she hadn't in a long time. Instead, she just hugged him again, trying to express what she dare not say.

Donny's eyes welled with tears, and they held the embrace until Deacon padded over and rested a hand on Donny's shoulder. The boy turned into another hug, wrapping his arms around the taller man's neck and putting his face in Deacon's chest. The old man clutched the boy tight, trying to commit the moment to memory, trying to imagine a world where he could have had something like this.

All too soon, they separated, and Deacon ruffled Donny's hair. "Be good, okay?" he said, forcing a smile. At least his sunglasses hid his watery eyes. "We'll come back for you. We always will."

Donny nodded, and with his pistol in hand, he walked out of the church, looking back only once before turning a corner and disappearing.

* * *

And so the trio became a duo once again. They found themselves on a rooftop as the sun set, Des and the others long gone on their march to Mercer. They sat together, leaning against each other and staring out at the Prydwen, the warmth of the sun at their backs and their shadows stretched far in front of them. At this distance, the Prydwen looked like a particularly low-hanging raincloud.

They sat in silence for a while as the sun dipped below the horizon and the air grew cooler and cooler. At last, Deacon spoke. "So. What's your plan?"

Morgan leaned forward, pulling her knees to her chest. "Months ago, Danse said I'd be welcome back at the Brotherhood if I ever learned to appreciate their cause. Or, well, something like that." She took a breath. "I think I might take him up on that."

Deacon nodded. "You think it'll work? You really think we'll be able to evacuate the good guys and blow up the Prydwen?"

Morgan looked aside, meeting his gaze. "I've made it this far, haven't I?"

"Can't argue with that." Deacon leaned back and crossed his legs. "Gonna be a hell of a ride."

"Always is."

"Have you told Sean where you're going?"

"No."

Deacon hummed. "Gonna be a _hell_ of a _ride_."

Morgan huffed a chuckle through her nose. "What, are you going to back out now?"

Deacon smiled. "And miss this? Never."


	18. Chapter Seventeen

"How do I look?"

Morgan looked him up and down. "Like a stranger."

Deacon grinned. "Think it'll fool the tin can man?"

"We can hope." Morgan pressed her lips together, casting a tense glance over her shoulder at the road behind them. "Remember. Let me do the talking."

The costumed man hummed. "I still think that's a bad idea. Remember the last time I let you do the talking with the Brotherhood?" He tugged at the leather pauldron on his left shoulder. He insisted that it chafed, despite being tailored to fit him.

"This time it's different. I know what I'm getting into. I've been in the military, Deacon, I know how they operate, I know how to act to gain their trust. Smartmouth smooth talkers won't do well here. Especially ones who don't follow orders well."

Deacon gave her a pleasant smile. "When have I ever not followed orders?"

Morgan ignored the bait. "I mean it, Deacon. There's too much at stake. I don't want you putting firecrackers in the toilets as a 'last laugh' and then have it come back to bite us in the ass later."

"You never let me have any fun." Deacon exhaled through his nose. "I'll try, boss."

"Good. Let's move." Morgan made sure her things were in place, then they left the alley, heading towards the Cambridge Police Station. The morning sun made the ruined buildings seem brighter, more colorful. Potholes and craters in the street contained pools of rainwater that glittered in the light, the surface of each pool covered with clumps of mutated, dark green Commonwealth moss.

The police station was quiet. Morgan's Pip-Boy picked up the radio signal from the Transmitter she'd helped Paladin Danse collect all those months ago. Come to think of it, the Prydwen had showed up not long after she'd helped him get that Transmitter. Maybe it would have been better to kill those bastards when they were weak, let the ghouls overrun them and tear them to pieces.

But you can't change the past. Morgan had only done what she thought was right, and given them a fair chance to prove that they were the good guys.

Now, well.

The tin can man himself stood outside the police station, still in the same set of power armor. He caught of sight of them, and dropped what he was carrying, levelling his gun at them. "Halt!"

Morgan raised her hands. Deacon did the same. "You don't remember me?" Morgan asked, staying where she was.

Danse climbed to the top of the barricade with a dubious look on his face, his gun pointed at their heads. His eyes widened in recognition. "The merc. Morgan, was your name?" he questioned, sounding surprised. "I didn't expect to see you again. As I recall, we parted on unpleasant terms."

Morgan forced herself not to glower. "We did. A lot has changed since then. As I recall, you told me to come back when I was ready and willing to accept your offer."

Danse's eyebrows rose into his forehead. "You've reconsidered?"

Morgan lowered her hands and took a few steps closer to the station, Deacon padding along behind her. "I couldn't help but think about what you'd said, about devoting yourself to a higher cause. Without going into details, I'm tired of wandering from place to place without a purpose. I'd like to join the Brotherhood."

All her practice in the mirror must have paid off, because pleasant surprise bloomed on the paladin's face. "I'm glad you've changed your mind," he said, and descended the barricade, motioning for them to meet him in the station yard. "I remember your skills. You're very capable, but at the time you lacked honor, and discipline. It's good that you've taken my advice to heart."

Morgan swallowed the sharp, cutting reply that rose in her throat, maintaining her look of pleasant subservience. "Thank you, sir."

The simple honorific made him preen, and his gaze shifted to Deacon. "Who's your new friend?"

Deacon wore well-tooled leather armor, and aviators instead of his usual Ray-Ban sunglasses. He kept his head shaved and a five o'clock shadow across his cheeks, enough to make him look rugged without giving away his hair color. Coupled with the weathered assault rifle at his hip, he looked like your standard hired gun. Without the wig, and with plenty of leather padding to make him look more muscular and intimidating, even Morgan might not have been able to recognize him.

"A new gun," Morgan explained. "My old guy got tired of having to defuse all my arguments, so he left me in the gutter. After I got beat up for pissing off the wrong people, I started re-evaluating my life choices. This guy," she said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, "is an old friend of mine, we used to run security jobs together. He lost a friend recently and got tired of mercenary work. I was going to ask if you'd be willing to take him on as a soldier, as well. I can vouch for his skills."

"I see." Danse looked thoroughly impressed. "I admit I'm surprised, but the Brotherhood welcomes anyone willing to join the cause, so long as they can follow orders. I think you show the potential of both. Come with me."

He gestured for them to follow, and Morgan and Deacon shared a glance before entering the police station. Inside, a handful of other soldiers milled around, all stopping to stare when the group entered. "Haylen, Rhys. I believe you remember this woman."

The petite blonde woman wiping grease from her hands nodded. "She helped us get the Transmitter. What brings you back here?" she asked, addressing the pair.

"My friend and I are... actually, hoping to join up," Morgan said, taking a breath. This was going a lot smoother than she expected.

"I extended the offer to her when she helped us retrieve the Transmitter, but at the time she was not receptive to our cause. Now she seems to have changed her mind." Danse glanced back at her over his shoulder. Morgan nodded.

"Wow. I mean, I didn't think you guys would ever come back," Haylen admitted, stuffing her greasy rag into a pocket of her vest. "It's nice that you're giving us a chance."

"More like we're giving _her_ a chance," Rhys interrupted. He gave her a stern, probing look. "I didn't expect you to come back. You had a bad attitude, and I told Danse I was happy to get rid of you after you took your money. It'll take more than nice words to convince me you're devoted to the cause."

"Rhys, enough." Danse interrupted. "Like it or not, you're going to have to learn to work with her. We're not here for greed or glory. We're an army, and we've dedicated our lives to a code of ethics." He shot Morgan a look. "Same for you. If you want to work with the Brotherhood, you have to understand its values, to obey our tenets without question. You think you can do that?"

"I was a merc, not a murderer," Morgan said, letting a little of the truth slip through. "I worked for people. Protected caravans, cleared out caves of ghouls or molerats for farms. I may not have been honorable, but I had ethics. Now, I'm just thinking of a better life. I'm willing to do what it takes."

"That's what we like to hear." Danse glanced at Rhys, as if he was making a point, before moving his gaze to Deacon. "And you?"

"He's a mute," Morgan stated, as Deacon opened his mouth. "Bad blow to the head when we were working together. He can still hear and take orders and think just fine, he just can't talk much. Right… Joe?" John had been his alias last time they met Danse. Joe would have to do for now. Deacon gave the group a pleasant, false smile, gesturing to his mouth with a shrug and making nonsense gestures with his hands. "He shares my desire for a better life," she explained. "Treat him the same as me."

Danse nodded. "Then I won't waste the time giving you both a long lecture. But, I'll say this. I only ask two things of those under my command. Honesty, and respect. You fall in line, you stay in line. I give you an order, and you follow it. It's as simple as that." He gave them both a stern look. "Given your skills, I don't think we'll need to put you through the gauntlet, but we will need to run some medical tests. We've got a vertibird on the roof. I'll fly you up to the Prydwen myself, to ensure that everything goes smoothly. Haylen, Rhys, I assume you can handle the station in my absence?"

The two clapped their right hands to the left side of their chest. "Can do, sir," Haylen said. Rhys nodded agreement. agreed with a nod.

"Good." Danse went upstairs to radio the airship, calling ahead and making sure they were expecting them. Then they went up to the roof, where a vertibird waited, operator at the ready. "Welcome aboard," Danse said, and helped the pair onto the bird. Deacon played it off, but Morgan saw his face pale. He strapped into the seat beside her as Danse stood beside the minigun attached to the bird, looking solemn. His hands clenched when the propeller whirred into life, the cockpit operator barking off a few commands before the bird lurched and rose up. "Your friend doesn't seem to be taking it well," Danse remarked, shouting to be heard over the roar of the engine.

"He doesn't like heights," Morgan shouted back.

"Give it time. There's nothing to be scared of." As he spoke, the bird swooped in a wide curve before speeding up and zooming towards the Prydwen itself. Maybe it was just the cold sparks of anxiety upsetting her stomach, but Morgan wasn't much enjoying the ride, either. Deacon's face turned a faint shade of green. He looked at Morgan with a rather unhappy expression, jerking a finger towards his mouth with a glare. Morgan shrugged, giving him a faint, amused smile.

As they neared the Prydwen, Danse pulled an intercom from the wall and spoke into it. A long, mechanical claw reached out from the side of the Prydwen, pulled the vertibird securely onto the airship. The group waited until the vehicle stilled before descending onto the catwalk. Morgan knew not to look down, but Deacon didn't, and almost stumbled, letting out a small noise of terror.

"He's better in combat," Morgan said, when Danse gave her a strange look. The trio walked along the catwalk to a dark-armored man waiting at the end of it with both hands held behind his back.

"Permission to come aboard, sir?" Danse asked.

"Permission granted," the man said, and pressed his right fist to the left side of his chest. "Welcome back, Paladin. Who've you brought with you?"

"New recruits," the tin can man explained. "Field promoted to Initiates, but I'd like to sponsor their entry into our rankings personally. I believe they're qualified enough to become Knights, sir. The woman is the one who helped us retrieve the Transmitter, and she's vouching for the skills of her friend."

"I remember the report." The man nodded, giving the pair a slow, gauging look. "I'm sure Elder Maxson will approve any request from his star soldier, though they'll be in your charge, Paladin. It's your responsibility to make them adequate soldiers."

"Thank you, sir. I'll do my best. My current orders?"

"Remain on the Prydwen and await further instruction."

"Very good, sir."

Morgan couldn't help but think of her years in the military, of the days where 'yes sir' and 'no sir' and 'will do, sir' were all she ever said, where human bodies were currency and every battle had a price. When she was told to sit down, shut up, do as she was told, when she was a million miles away from home, fighting for a war she didn't believe in, feeling her mind slip away from her with every passing day. A shiver went down her spine, but she did not flinch.

The dark-armored man with the dark blue cap turned his gaze on them once Danse disappeared into the Prydwen. "I'm Lancer Captain Kells. Names?"

"Morgan," the woman replied. "And this is Joe, sir. Joe can't talk, due to an injury some years back, but he can hear and think perfectly well. He'll follow your orders to the letter, sir."

The captain raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised a civilian would act so appropriately without training, Initiate."

"I've had some prior military experience, sir. I left it when I was young, and struck out on my own as a mercenary. But as Paladin Danse would tell you, I'm looking to put my skills to good use, and make something more of myself. Sir." Her military mask came back to her all at once. The neutral expression, the vocal tics, the way she stood straight with her chin up and her gaze focused. She struggled to lie any way else, but tricking her superiors was a skill she'd been forced to learn.

Kells gave her a thoughtful nod, observing her and Deacon, who had quickly adopted her body language. "Perhaps you'll make good soldiers after all. Not to question the Paladin's judgement, but some of his reports did not cast you in a totally positive light. I'm pleased to see you both making an effort." He raised his chin. "Your orders are to proceed to the Command Deck for the address, after which Elder Maxson will have words with you. Danse should have explained the situation to him by the time you arrive. Dismissed."

They nodded their goodbyes and went into the Prydwen, letting the pale white lights wash over them. They followed the signs to a wide room at the bow of the ship, where a bearded man in a thick leather coat addressed a gathered crowd. Morgan and Deacon fell into the crowd, mingling among the other soldiers and keeping their head down.

The man clasped his hands behind his back. "Now that the ship is in position, it is time to reveal our purpose and our mission. Beneath the earth, there is a cancer, known as the Institute, a malignant growth, that needs to be cut before it festers. They are experimenting with dangerous technologies that could prove to be the world's undoing for the second time in recent history. The Institute scientists have created a weapon that transcends the destructive nature of the atomic bomb. They call their creation, the 'synth,' a robotic abomination of technology that is free-thinking, and masquerades as a human being."

A look of distaste passed over the Elder's face. The agents shared a look. "The notion that a machine could be granted free will is not only offensive, but horribly dangerous. And like the atom, if it isn't harnessed properly, it has the potential of rendering us extinct as a species. I am not prepared to allow the Institute to continue this line of experimentation. Therefore, the Institute and their 'synths' are considered enemies of the Brotherhood of Steel, and should be dealt with swiftly, and mercilessly. This campaign will be costly. Many lives will be lost. But in the end, we will be saving humankind from its worst enemy. Itself."

As Morgan recalled, it wasn't the common man that chose to go to war and end up destroying the world. If she remembered correctly, it was reckless scientific ambition and a global thirst for power that destroyed the earth, leaving humanity to fight over what was left. Perhaps if world leaders had been less obsessed with flattering their ego and lining their pockets, the world now would be very different.

"Ad Victoriam," the Elder finished, and the gathered soldiers repeated the words and gesture. Morgan and Deacon followed suit, and then the room dispersed, Maxson lingering on the bridge and leaning over the rail to stare at the sunny ocean beyond the airport. The agents waited for the room to clear before approaching. Morgan went to his side, opening her mouth to introduce herself, when he spoke first."I care about them, you know," he murmured. "The people of the Commonwealth."

 _I'm sure you think you do_ , Morgan thought. She remembered the people cowering in Bunker Hill as vertibirds deposited soldiers outside the city, of Donny trembling as they invaded HQ, of the many residents of Goodneighbor who cursed the Brotherhood's name. She could recall countless Brotherhood soldiers who had extorted family farms, killed sentient ghouls, or threatened suspected synths. The only people she knew who supported the Brotherhood were the ones rich or safe enough to remain unaffected by their conquest.

"I know you must, sir," Morgan said.

Maxson stood upright from the railing, turning around to face them both. His dark eyes were shadows, a scar running up over one cheek and brow, narrowly avoiding his eye. His coat was pristine, his fingernails cut short, a full beard sprouting from his cheeks. His dark eyes looked almost similar to Kellogg's, but without the lifelessness behind them. He looked like the kind of man who believed all the dogma he recited, word for word. "You're Paladin Danse's sponsored recruits," he said, both a statement and a question.

"Yes sir."

"According to his reports, your opinion of us - of our mission - has not always been the most positive," Maxson said, raising an eyebrow.

Morgan let her gaze drift to the floor, projecting uncertainty, vulnerability, acting like she wanted his approval. "As a mercenary," she began, making sure to let her voice crack, "I lived from day to day. I just wanted to make enough caps to eat the next week. I let myself be convinced that the Brotherhood was just here to make life difficult for the 'little people,' and that all my low-life friends were the ones who were in the right. I'm... tired of living that way, sir. I wanted something greater in my life. I mean that, truly. And my companion shares my passion, even if he can't speak. He lost a dear friend to the Institute not long ago. He wants a chance to make things right."

Maxson nodded, clearly pleased with her well-researched speech. She and Deacon had practiced the character for hours on the journey to the police station, going over the intricacies, the body language, the facial expressions. When Morgan had first teleported to the Institute, she had no idea what to expect. Now, she had a plan. Now, she was at no one's mercy.

"Danse is one my most well-respected field officers, and I personally hold him in a high regard. Though I admit I had my doubts, I must say that I'm glad he - and you - proved me wrong. In light of your ambition and reported skill, I'm granting you the rank of Knight. There will be an adjustment period, but I'm confident that you'll both do well here. Now, once you're finished becoming familiar with the Prydwen and its operations, report to the Flight Deck for your new orders.

"Welcome aboard the Prydwen, soldier," he beamed. "Make us proud."

They found Danse in the mess hall after Maxson dismissed him. The paladin rose from his seat, looking pleased. "I take it you've been accepted?"

"We did," Morgan affirmed, forcing a faux-earnest smile. "I believe Elder Maxson approved of our enthusiasm."

"I'm glad to hear it. Have you found your way around yet?"

"Not yet. We're just going around, taking a look at things." _Keeping track of security. Counting your weapons. Taking notes of weaknesses._ Already Morgan and Deacon had passed a handful of young boys curled up in a corner of the ship, doodling chalk pictures on the metal floors and walls. _How many more child soldiers does this place have?_ "Do you know where our quarters are? We were hoping to get changed and take a look at our uniforms."

"Male and female wings are separate. Left and right, respectively." He gestured to the helpful signs beside each hallway.

Morgan and Deacon shared a look. "Ah, Danse," Morgan began, "I... hate to ask this, but, I- I think it'd be best if John and I shared a room, at least in the beginning of our stay here."

Danse quirked an eyebrow. "If the two of you are... involved, I think you'll find that-"

"No! No. Not at all What I mean, is..." Morgan searched for an excuse, any excuse, something that would allow them to stick together until they could finish the mission. "He's gay," she finished, taking a breath. "A, rather aggressive, gay man. Just... very aggressive. Very aggressive. Towards other men. Yes. Being in an all-male wing may not... work out, until he's... made the adjustment."

Danse slowly moved his eyes to meet Deacon's sunglasses. Deacon responded with a leer and suggestive wag of his eyebrows.

The paladin's cheeks darkened visibly, jerking his head away to stop eye contact as soon as possible, struggling to remain composed. "I... I see," he said lamely. "I understand. That- I'm sure- I'm sure you're aware that such... behavior may not, ah, in fact, be, uh, appropriate, for a military environment. Of course there is, um, some engagement between soldiers, but ideally, we, ah-"

"I'm so glad you understand," Morgan gushed. "If we could just have some private quarters, for the first few weeks, that's all I ask. Joe's my closest friend and I want him to feel at home here, but I don't want to make others uncomfortable. Please, sir."

"Well." Danse stared at the floor. "I will speak to someone about it. Feel free to take one of the empty rooms until it's settled. Excuse me."

He speedwalked back to the mess hall, leaving them alone in a hurry. Morgan didn't dare look at Deacon for fear she'd start laughing. She kept her back to him and jiggled the handles of a few doors until she found an empty room with two beds, and steeled herself as Deacon shut the door behind them.

As soon as the lock clicked, he burst into sputtering giggles. " _Gay_?" Morgan sat down on the bed and held one hand to her lips to control her mirth as Deacon ranted as quietly as he could. "I'm a mute gay man. I can't believe I've never thought of that before. A mute, gay man, dressed like an extra in a Western-themed B-movie. Named Joe. Why not- why not _Bruce_? Or maybe _Troy_?" He shook his head, running his hands over his face. "Morgan, do you even know what the Brotherhood thinks of gays? There are some parts of the Brotherhood that outlaw homosexuality altogether. We're lucky Maxson just has a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy. Though I guess we already did the telling part."

Morgan's attempts at stifling her laughter gave out, and she giggled behind her hand, cheeks tinted red and tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Deacon continued raving, a wide smile on his face. "An _aggressive_ gay man? Just because I keep glitter in my pockets doesn't mean I need you to speak for my sexuality, Ms. Boss. But now you force me to play the part. Now I have to go hit on every single attractive, male Brotherhood soldier I see. That's, like, _all_ of them, Morgan. Do you understand what you've done?"

"I know, I know." Manic giggles kept escaping her. The simultaneous seriousness and absurdity of the situation was too much. "It's the only thing- the only thing I could think of."

"Oh, well, I forgive you, obviously." Deacon let out one of his rare, genuine laughs, a deep belly laugh that ended in a drawn-out sigh. "And you said I shouldn't do the talking. I can't imagine a worse scenario, here." He reached to fiddle with his wig, forgetting it wasn't on his head.

"We could be dead," Morgan pointed out, smiling gently.

"Right. Forgot about that," Deacon said, fiddling with his leather jacket instead. "I mean, I'd rather be a gay mute than dead, but you gotta admit, this is not the optimal situation. I've never even slept with a man before. At least, not when he knew I was a man. But that's a story for another time."

Morgan batted his hands away as he started tugging at the left shoulder piece again. "We just have to last a few weeks," she assured him. "Long enough to figure out who's shitty and who's not, and get the kids out. Then we can get out of here."

"And I'm sure it'll be just that easy." Deacon grinned.

Morgan's eyes lingered on the curve of his smile, of the gleam of his sunglasses in the light, the way his face seemed to soften and grow younger when he smiled. It occurred to her that she still had her hand resting on his shoulder from where she'd adjusted his pauldron, the faint drum of his heartbeat thrumming through the leather and against the heel of her palm.

Deacon acknowledged the easy way she approached him, touched him, so different from when they'd first met. The way her scars faded when she laughed, or the way his heart seemed to beat faster when he _made_ her laugh. He noticed the way her hair curled around her face when she didn't brush it, how her eyes crinkled up in the corners as she giggled.

The moment lasted a second, maybe two.

Then, like someone flipping a switch, the light in Morgan's eyes dimmed and she stepped back, retracting her hand and taking a breath. She looked aside and listened to the door, pretending to check for listeners. Deacon took a smaller step back, lengthening the distance between them, refusing to linger on the odd sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"Jokes aside," he said, smoothing over the moment with a spread of his hands, "I'll make everyone around me uncomfortable, and see what I can overhear. What's the immediate plan?"

Morgan, grateful for the fast recovery, cleared her throat and crossed her arms. She looked at his ear instead of his sunglasses as she spoke. "Changing clothes. We get into our uniforms and greet the other departments. Go through their medical tests, then go on whatever mission they have planned for us. From there, we learn what we can and then try to get the kids out as fast as possible. Tom has the explosives stashed for us at the drop just outside of the airport. We can get them when they're ready."

"Sounds good, boss." Deacon make sure to put a little extra emphasis on the final word.

Morgan nodded, still avoiding his eyes. "Move out."


	19. Chapter Eighteen

They found their uniforms in their footlockers, one-size-fits-all jumpsuits that conformed to their figures. Deacon ran off for his medical exam while Morgan picked up their issued weapons and supplies. She followed the signs to the armory, and found a countertop surrounded by metal grating, with a dark-eyed man behind them smiling at her under a head of salt-and-pepper hair. "Here for your new equipment? Don't worry - they may have locked me in this blasted cage, but I promise I don't bite."

"Cage?" Morgan frowned, observing the thick grating and locked doors. "Why all this security?"

"Well, we don't want anyone getting any funny ideas," the man said, sliding a pair of laser pistols across the counter. "Squires like to nick laser pistols and take potshots at seagulls, and some hotshot rookies think they can handle a Gauss rifle without the proper training. Don't want unnecessary injuries." He smiled again. "I'm Proctor Teagan, the quartermaster. I'm guessing you're the new Knight."

"Morgan." She ran her eyes over the armory shelves. "Do the squires, often cause trouble?"

"Not if we can help it. They're not allowed to go anywhere near a combat mission until they're sixteen, but that doesn't stop them from thinking they can just swipe something and 'prove their skills.' We try to keep them in line. They're plenty busy with their schooling and training. You need anything else?" he added, gesturing to Morgan's unimpressed expression as she examined the pistols.

"I was hoping for something a little... bigger," the woman admitted.

Teagan winked at her. "Laser rifle, maybe? Mercs are used to ballistics, I know, but you'll get used to laser weapons after a while. Quieter, lighter, a little cleaner. Don't have to worry about cleaning a barrel so much, just replace the refraction crystals every so often." He handed her a few more weapons. "Now, that stuff's free of charge, but anything else, I'll need you to show me some caps."

"It's not all free?" Morgan questioned. "I assumed the Brotherhood had an open inventory."

"To a degree." Teagan shrugged. "You get discounts if I'm in a good mood, but if you want free ammo and repairs, you'll have to go down to the grease pit and see Ingram. I do the business around here. Command doesn't like confiscating the caps soldiers find around the wasteland, but they don't like soldiers walking around with heavy pockets, either. I keep things circulating."

"Oh." Morgan shook her head, hoisting the stack of weaponry. "Thank you, Proctor."

Teagan waved her off, and Morgan walked on, hitching her new guns to her belt and back. Thus began her self-guided tool. The Prydwen seemed to be divided into levels, with the "grease pit" being the lowest-most level, where engineers kept the place running. The middle level was the mess hall, quartermaster, and bedrooms. Above that was the science lab and officer rooms, and Maxson's windowed bridge. And, at the top were the support beams, where people kept the structure of the airship steady and where squires liked to hide out and goof off.

In the science lab, a brown-skinned woman in a gray coat scribbled on a clipboard, muttering about control groups and anti-rad configurations. Lingering in a dark corner, Morgan overheard an officer giving an Initiate a stern talking-to. It seemed a rookie had taken pity on some ghouls not far from the airport, and taken to feeding them. The commanding officer seemed less than pleased with this, and was giving the Initiate a thorough, disapproving lecture.

Morgan found herself in the grease pit, her feet having taken her down a stairwell and into the yellow-lit bowels of the ship. Scribes and mechanics milled about, trading tools and relaying orders to other workers. At the end of the hall, a red-haired head poked up at the top of a power armor frame, commanding the younger engineers and fiddling with a wide array of tools.

Morgan approached the armored woman. "Proctor Ingram?"

The red-haired woman rose from her crouched position to her full height, standing a head or so above Morgan. "That's me. What do you need?" Even without the power armor, she looked as though she would have stood at six feet, thick limbs visible through the plates of her armor frame. From the knee down, she was limbless, with extra bits of metal connected to her knees to make up for her lack of calves and feet. She had dark eyes that looked tired, but not unfriendly. Her hair was unwashed and stained with grease, but overall she looked like a kind, if blunt sort of person.

Morgan introduced herself and extended a hand. "I'm a new recruit, familiarizing myself with the Prydwen's operations," she said. "I was told you do a lot of the repair work around here."

Ingram wiped off her armored fingers and returned the handshake. "I do. I keep this ship together so it doesn't drop out of the damn air. If your power armor's too tight in the crotch, the Prydwen's about to fall out of the sky, or a robot's gone haywire, you come see me."

"That sounds like a lot to handle."

"You don't know the half of it," Ingram snorted. "There isn't a day that goes by on this tub without five or six things breaking down. And, since I'm stuck in this rig," she said, gesturing to her armor, "I'm not quite as spry as I used to be. The work keeps piling up."

Morgan nodded. "There anything I should know about the people here?"

Ingram's eyebrows raised. "You're asking me?"

Morgan replied with a genuine, sly smile. "I find that the people doing the grunt work hear more and talk plainer than the higher-ups."

The redhead mirrored Morgan's knowing expression. "Alright then." Ingram turned, and named each section as she spoke. "Teagan runs the depot. Sometimes he'll drive you up the wall talking in that dead language of his, but so long as he doesn't call you a _shmendrik_ , he likes you. Neriah is the senior Scribe here, doing most of the science crap. She's nice enough, just a little fussy about her damn experiments. Quinlan heads up the research division - he's the one who goes through all the data around here, and tells Maxson what's worth researching and what isn't. He's a little air-headed, but if you're nice to his cat, he's alright. Cade's the doc. He's a bit of a stickler for the rules, but he's not a bad guy if you go by the book." Ingram dropped her hand and addressed the other woman. "Happy?"

"Yes. Thank you, Proctor."

"Sure, sure." Ingram turned back to her workbench. "Just try not to be a pain in my ass."

Morgan hid a smile and left, venturing back up into the main hub of the ship. She grabbed a drink in the mess hall, keeping her head down and eavesdropping on conversations, glancing over a few unattended terminals. She couldn't help feeling a bit… surprised. She had expected soundless cafeterias with propaganda blaring over the speakers. Condescending smirks from the other soldiers. Children being yelled at and brainwashed into working for a 'greater good.'

Instead she just found a bunch of bored-looking kids hunched over some desks as a Scribe gave a lecture on the importance of nuclear power in Pre-War domestic devices, and how normalization of it impacted the Great War. Soldiers told anecdotes about their time out in the wield, prompting bursts of laughter from crowded cafeteria tables. Men and women of all races fought alongside each other.

The arrogance was still there, of course. She heard a few people using slurs against ghouls and synths. Maxson still gave his speeches on the bridge. "Ad Victoriam" was still the accepted greeting and goodbye between soldiers. But this place had more humanity in it than she remembered from her time in the military. A part of her wondered, had she not found the Railroad, if she would have ended up here.

The thought was unsettling.

She bumped into Deacon in one of the hallways between wings, rounding a corner and physically knocking together. Her companion looked agitated, darting his head all around and clasping her by the shoulders. He opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind, jerking a finger to his lips and taking her by the shoulder, tugging her across the ship with an odd look on his face. When the door to their quarters shut behind them, Deacon exhaled. "I don't know how I'm going to do this if this room is the only place I can talk. He asked me if I'd slept with a ghoul, Morgan. But that's not important." The words tumbled from his mouth at a rapid, breathless pace.

"Is everything alright?" Morgan questioned, brow furrowed in worry.

"Yes. Sort of. I know who Danse is."

"I beg your pardon?"

Deacon flailed his hands and paced around the room. "I didn't remember him when we were getting the Transmitter, or even up 'til now. He looks so much different." He ran his hands over his smooth head. "I remember his file. He showed up with another synth, a boyfriend who'd escaped the Institute with him. They got a mindwipe as a pair, choosing a life story where they grew up in the Capital Wasteland together. DC," he added, at her look of confusion.

"Wait," Morgan interrupted. "Danse is a synth? But... he's in the Brotherhood."

"He doesn't _know_ he's a synth," Deacon corrected. "But he is. M7-97. When I knew him, he didn't have the scar and the scruff and all that, but that's him. Swear on my testicle."

"Testicle, singular?"

Deacon waved her off. "It's a long story."

"Okay." Morgan considered this. "So... what do we do with this information?"

"I don't know," the other agent admitted, letting his hands fall to his sides. "But if he's a synth, I don't know if we should leave him to die here."

"We can't go picking favorites because of race," the woman pointed out.

"Well, can't we? That's what we're here for, isn't it? To pick who lives and who dies?"

Morgan hesitated. "I suppose we are, aren't we," she murmured. She nibbled her lower lip, then spoke cautiously. "We don't… _have_ to be," she offered.

Deacon arched a brow. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, we don't have to do this the way Des wants it. I said we'd do this my way, and if we don't think this is the right thing to do, I say we try a different plan." She chewed her lip again, sitting down with a pensive expression. "We're supposed to be the heroes. We're supposed to set an example. Blowing up an airship in retaliation was never the most intelligent move to begin with."

Deacon sighed, lacing his hands behind his head. "Blowing this all up would mean losing all the information inside, too. That seems a little criminal."

"Evacuating the Prydwen and then blowing it up would accomplish nothing. Maxson would still be alive, the soldiers would still be alive. We'd wound them, but what kind of message does that send? _We could kill you, but didn't_?" Morgan paused. "Well, that could work."

Deacon shook his head. "The Brotherhood would probably suspect the Railroad, anyway. Or, even if we took out the Prydwen, any plan they had to eliminate us might still be in effect. They've still got the airport, unless you want to blow that all up too."

"That might require more explosives, and I don't want to stay here that long." Morgan hummed. "We could kill Maxson," she said thoughtfully.

"And then what? It's the Brotherhood. Cut off one head, two more grow back. They'll find some new leader, they'll carry on. Maxson will become an post-humous martyr. Any straightforward attack that doesn't cripple them will make them want to strike back even harder."

Morgan pressed her lips together in a scowl. "Damn them."

They fell silent, listening to the distant hum of the Prydwen's engines, and the low rumble of human conversation through its thick metal walls. "We could talk to him," Deacon suggested.

"Who?"

"Maxson."

Morgan snorted. "Like he'd listen."

"He might." Deacon rubbed his chin. "He might, if we could propose a peace treaty for the sake of destroying the Institute."

Morgan frowned, brow furrowed. "You think that'd work?"

"Maybe. The Brotherhood loves honor. Maybe if we admit the truth, and ask for his cooperation, he'd give us a chance."

Morgan snorted again. "What, say sorry and we won't get punished?" She shook her head. "I never thought I'd hear you advocating to tell the truth."

"Morgan." Deacon sat down on the bed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and wringing his hands. "Do we have a better option?"

Morgan's dry mirth melted away, leaving her solemn. "No."

"Is there a chance we're going to die, anyway, no matter what we do?"

Grudgingly: "Yes."

"I say we at least try. Tell him we have a chance at destroying the Institute. Tell him killing us will ruin that chance. Make a deal with him." He paused. "We don't have the resources to defeat the Institute any more. Not after their attack. We might need them no matter what."

"We have the Minutemen for that," Morgan countered. "Or, we will, once this is over with."

"Why not both?" Deacon spread his hands. "Sure, a ragtag bunch of farmers turned soldiers might be useful, but people with laser guns and power armor might be a little better."

Morgan sighed, going quiet. "Is this really what we have to do?" she whispered at last.

"It's the only thing we _can_ do."

* * *

Once they were settled in, they got their orders: Go to Fort Strong, a Super Mutant nest on a nearby peninsula, and clear it out. Traveling by vertibird, they arrived quickly, dark orange combat armor fitted over them and laser rifles in hand. Ingram had offered them power armor before they left, and seemed surprised when they refused. Both agents knew that turning down power armor was unusual, perhaps even a faux pas among the Brotherhood, but they needed to move quickly. No telling how much time the Railroad had left.

The job was easy enough, and by the time they returned to the Prydwen, the sun approached the horizon, scattering red-gold rays of light across the rippling surface of the ocean. The airship's lights had dimmed, signaling for the soldiers to return to their bunks and ready for lights out. But instead, they went to the bridge, where Maxson watched the sea and the setting sun cast him in an phantasmic light, a red-gold halo around his head. "Welcome, Knights." he said. "I trust you returned safely."

Morgan took a breath, settling her face, playing out the scene as she and Deacon had rehearsed it. "Yes, sir," she said, letting her brow furrow. "There was something we wished to speak to you about."

Maxson raised his chin, frowning. "From Fort Strong?"

"Yessir. Regarding the Super Mutants." Behind her, Deacon shuffle strategically off to the side. Leading into the Command Deck was an open archway, but where Deacon stood, no one in the hallway could see him. All they would see were Morgan and Maxson talking at the bow. "We came upon some rather concerning intel, sir."

The Elder nodded, stroking his beard. "Have you reported this to Kells?"

"Yessir. He said to bring it to you at once."

"I see."

Morgan stepped forward, forcing herself to move slow and reluctant, shoulders curled in like she wanted to shy away. "May I, sir?"

Maxson pressed his lips together, but acquiesced, stepping aside to let her join him at the railing. She felt herself sweat under Maxson's dark, intense eyes, and heard the subtle click of Deacon readying his rifle. In one swift motion, she pulled The Deliverer from her pocket, pointing the slim barrel at Maxson's chest. "Don't move," she murmured, and her innocence was gone.

Maxson's eyes flashed with sudden anger, but he said nothing. He bristled, his beard seeming to swell in volume as his nostrils flared and he inhaled sharply, but he stayed still. His eyes flickered to Deacon, hiding in the corner with his rifle at their backs. For a few seconds, it felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. "Traitors," Arthur Maxson murmured at last, his dark eyes boring into Morgan's pale blue-gray ones. "You played the part well, for common mercs. Whatever they're paying you, it likely isn't enough." He stepped forward, closer to Morgan's gun, letting the barrel press into his jacket. "Kill me, and you won't leave this airship alive."

"I'm not here to kill you." Though she met his gaze, she trembled, and shivers crept up her back. Her palm began to sweat around the grip of her pistol. "If I was, you'd already be dead."

"Money, then." Maxson didn't bat an eye. "Power. Blackmail. Revenge."

"Peace."

He blinked, then a cold, arrogant bark of a laugh cut from his lips. "You have nerve. Coming aboard my ship, lying to me, threatening me, and then asking for peace. Who sent you?"

"The Railroad, originally."

That got his attention. "And, now?"

"Just me." Morgan swallowed. "They asked me to come here and destroy the Prydwen. They wanted me to kill Paladin Danse, to steal a vertibird and come aboard this ship, to arm explosives in weak corners and set them off once my friend and I had escaped. I changed my mind."

"Guilt?" Maxson questioned, arching a brow. "I find it hard to believe that two days in my ranks would turn a terrorist into a soldier."

"I was a soldier, once, a long time ago. And I think there's a part of me that always will be, whether I like it or not. I know the horrors of war. I don't think my leader does, much as she might think so. I convinced my leader that it was worth holding off on the attack to make sure that we saved the children. After your people destroyed our headquarters, tensions were high. People wanted revenge. I can't blame them." She held his eyes, feeling stronger. "You might be prepared to start a war, but the rest of us? The 'little people' you claim to care about? They will bear the burden of your choices. It's all well and good to send your soldiers to their deaths, but it's the civilians we should be trying to save."

"And what of your synths?" Maxson interrupted, lifting a finger. "They're aggressive, illogical, and violent. The civilians you claim to be protecting are at least as threatened by them as they are us. Synths are a menace to the Commonwealth, and an abomination against humanity. The Institute will replace us all with them if they have their way. When the time comes, the Institute will activate them, turn them into the living objects of destruction they are, and then we will be in a war whether you like it or not. I am trying to circumvent an inevitability."

"What if I told you there was a third option?"

The larger man narrowed his eyes. "I would say I have no reason to believe you."

"Then let me explain myself." She lowered her pistol and let her arms hang at her side. Deacon kept his gun up. "I told you the original plan was to kill you all. I wanted to avoid innocent bloodshed, so I came here and lied to you so I could find the innocents and evacuate them in time." She hesitated, glancing out at the sea before shaking her head and returning to the Elder. "But the world isn't so simple. Playing god is for villains, for fascists, for terrorists. For the Institute. That's not what I wanted to do."

"Do you want forgiveness?" Maxson spread his hands, his beard bristling as he drew himself up to his full height. "You want me to tell you that a sudden change of heart, a sudden feeling of guilt negates your deceptions and murderous intentions?"

"No. I wouldn't expect it from you, not after our history. I'm sure you'd happily see me dead, and I you. The term 'casualties of war' exists for a reason." She shook her head. "But, for all our differences, we share a common goal. We want to destroy the Institute. My organization knows how. Your organization could make it happen. I offer you an alliance."

"And I'm just supposed to believe this?" The man crossed his arms. "That your hole-in-the-wall cluster of radicals discovered how to get into the Institute, then decided to kill me and my army, but you lost your nerve halfway through and now you're begging for mercy?"

"No. They didn't discover how to get into the Institute. I did." Morgan raised her chin, and pressed her shoulders back. "I didn't join the Railroad to save synths. Not originally. I joined because I thought they'd help me find my son, who'd been stolen by the Institute. The Railroad gave me purpose when I wanted to die. They kept me going as I walked to the ends of the earth to find my son. And I mean that literally. I walked into the heart of the Glowing Sea to track him down. There, I learned how to build the Molecular Relay - the teleporter needed to get into the Institute.

"We're not friends. We never will be. But the world isn't simple enough for me to waltz in, decide you're the bad guys and put you all to death. We're all trying to play the hero, Arthur. But in the end, either the Institute will fall, or all of us, both of us, will die. The Institute is everything wrong with the world. It is oppression, is it fear-mongering, it is the greed and endless hunger for power that makes our race cannibalize itself. It is the selfishness and lack of humanity that makes us oblivious to human suffering, until one day we wake up and wonder why we are unloved and alone.

"You're no hero, Arthur Maxson. Neither am I. I just want to put down my weapons and go home, so I don't… so I don't have to worry about my family's future. Call me a radical, call me a terrorist, say I'm a wishy-washy coward that snuck aboard your ship rather than facing you in honorable combat. Fine. But I'm giving you an opportunity to change the world. I truly believe that you think you're an honorable man, Maxson. Prove it. Show me you care more about the greater good than you do power or pride. I showed you I could have destroyed you, but I did not. Extend me the same courtesy. Put down your arms until the greatest threat is gone, and then we can talk about our respective ideals."

She exhaled. Her cheeks were wet, her vision blurry, her throat dry and her breathing uneven. At some point she must have started to cry. She held out a hand. "Please."

The young general-king stared at her for a few moments, letting her words wash over him, letting the room settle into a heavy silence. Then, at last, his calloused palm slid over hers. "I am not a perfect man," he murmured, shaking her hand in a tight grip. "But I am Brotherhood. I work to protect my people, and if what you say is true, then perhaps it can save us all. Tell me what I need to know."

* * *

Maxson stood on a balcony near the top of the Prydwen, looking down at the black cloud of human bodies crowded in the Boston airport. Morgan and Deacon stood just behind him, just out of sight. The young man took a breath, his finger hovering just above a single red button. Once pressed, his voice would broadcast from every Brotherhood speaker across the Commonwealth, his words emanating from the Prydwen all the way to the most far-off camp radio.

Morgan and Deacon got to see a rare moment of vulnerability, when his intimidating veneer faded away, showing the early-twenties man hidden under the thorny crown of leadership. Consternation showed in the furrow of his brow. He pressed his eyes shut, steeling himself. When he exhaled, all the tension drained from his back and shoulders. When he opened his eyes, Elder Maxson, the last of a very long line of very proud men, opened his mouth.

"Soldiers," he began. "Paladins. Knights. Initiates. Officers. I have... an announcement to make." He paused for effect, knowing that across the Commonwealth, people turned to listen. "In light of recent developments," he continued, "our initiative has changed. I am sure you all are aware of the Railroad and Minutemen. The former being radical extremists who rescue the abominations we call synths, and the latter being a collective of civilians, suited for domestic matters, but not, perhaps, for military ones.

"Up until this very moment, I truly believed that we stood our best chance against the Institute with a direct, individual attack. I thought aligning with these smaller, lesser groups would deter us from our mission, and dilute the purity and efficiency we pride ourselves on. I am a proud man. I am proud of you. I am proud of what we have accomplished. But the mark of a good leader is one who is open to new ideas, even if they conflicts with his most deeply-held beliefs, if he thinks that information can be used to best serve the people he leads.

"The Institute grows stronger every day. More formidable. We know that they are readying themselves for an attack, the likes of which we have not seen since the destruction of the Old World. We may, as we are, stand a chance against them. But we stand a better chance if we stand together. With the Minutemen's resources, we can better supply our troops. With the Railroad's contacts and intelligence, we can learn more about the Institute. And with our combined military might, we can better defend and empower the Commonwealth as a whole.

"I am not saying that either organization is perfect. Or, indeed, that their beliefs align with our own. In a different time, under different circumstances, it would be worth fighting for what we believe is right. But in times of crisis, when a great and terrible force threatens us all, we must put aside our differences and unite against the greater threat. As such, I and a few of my most trusted officers will be traveling to the Castle and meet with the leader of the Minutemen. The Railroad's representatives will meet me there. Together we will come up with a plan to defeat the Institute. Be strong, my friends. The greatest fight of all is yet to come." Maxson clapped his right hand over his heart. "Ad Victoriam."

" _Ad Victoriam_ ," the ground soldiers shouted, in the terrifying roar of hundreds. Maxson turned away from the balcony, and re-entered the Prydwen, the pair of Railroad agents at his heels. As soon as the door closed, Maxson summoned a bottle of liquor his desk, pouring the amber liquid into a crystal glass and taking a sip, falling into his chair with a shadowed look on his face.

"Thank you, Maxson," Morgan said, softly.

The man's hand shook as he sipped from his glass. "I like to think myself a good judge of character, Morgan," he said, setting down the glass. "Your introduction was... unorthodox, but your motivations genuine. I'm almost sorry it took this long for us to meet."

"I'm sorry it took this long for an agreement to be reached," Morgan replied. "I imagine one of us had to make it to the Institute before we realized just how bad things were."

Maxson nodded, looking pensive. "Is it truly that bad?" he asked, meeting her eyes with a whisper. "Are they that powerful? That cruel?"

Morgan thought of everything she'd learned, heard, and read. Of the terminal entries about the secret labs where they infected wasteland children with the FEV virus to see what would happen. Of human beings who'd been kidnapped by the Institute and replaced with synths, so that their spouses and children were left wondering what happened to their loved one. Of the synths who cowered in fear under the threat of being recalled or otherwise abused. She thought of Deacon, spending twenty years trying to atone for his wife's death. Of H2, so terrified of the world he could hardly function. Of Danse, who didn't even know what he was. Of Nate's face when he died. Of her baby. She thought of Sean, standing before her on that CIT rooftop and telling her that the world was hopeless.

"They are more terrible than you can possibly imagine."


	20. Chapter Nineteen

When Maxson said he was bringing a security detail, Morgan didn't expect a whole damn Secret Service. Only after persistent badgering did he agree to leave some soldiers behind, after Morgan informed him that so much firepower would be viewed as an act of aggression. "We're here for peace," she said. "Not a dick-measuring contest."

Maxson bristled, and for a second she genuinely thought he was about to correct her on the size of his cock. But he let it go. Now they were here, with Brotherhood and Minutemen soldiers pacing alongside each other along the battlements, keeping watch for synths as the two biggest leaders in the Commonwealth shook hands. Des was still on her way.

"General Garvey," the Elder greeted, sticking out a hand. "It's good to finally meet you."

"Good to meet you too," Preston said, clearly less confident but making up for it in earnestness. He returned the handshake. Both men stood like military figures - feet spread shoulder width, shoulders back, heads held high and their hands resting on their weapons. "Gotta admit, I was surprised to hear what all you said on the radio."

"Your friend, Ms. Morgan, enlightened me on the situation." He pressed his lips together. "I presume you're aware of the Railroad's information on the Institute."

"I don't know all of it, but I saw it in action." Preston toyed with his hat, running his fingers along the brim. "Some kinda teleporter. Real fancy tech. I would have called it Brotherhood if it didn't look so patchwork. Between me and Morgan's Railroad people, we got that put together, and then Morgan disappeared. This summit is the first time I've seen her since." His eyes moved over Maxson's shoulder to the woman behind it. "You sure have been busy, huh."

Morgan shrugged.

Preston nodded, and spread a hand behind him, towards the open field of the Castle. "Brotherhood and the Minutemen might not agree on everything, but I'm not about to turn down an alliance. So long as you come in peace, you're welcome here. We've got a medical center, an armory, barracks, power armor, a bar. I know it's not as fancy as you're used to, but I hope you'll be comfortable." He gestured. "General's quarters is that way. We'll have our discussions in there. You're welcome to wait there or inspect the place 'til Morgan's people show up."

Maxson nodded. A half-dozen armored soldiers marched in at his heels, two accompanying him to the General's quarters and the rest going to pace around the fort. When Maxson rounded a corner, Preston exhaled, and gave Morgan a questioning look. "You have any explanation for this?"

Morgan shrugged. "He attacked the Railroad."

"So you _partnered_ with him?"

"Not quite. That's what these negotiations are for. After the attack, the Railroad wanted me to kill the Brotherhood, but that didn't work out so well. I figured banding together would solve our common problem. Only, I don't think Des was expecting this. I might have to mitigate the conversation." She licked her lips, tilting her head aside. "How is leadership treating you?"

Preston chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. "It's, uh. I gotta say, today might be the hardest day yet. And I've been putting the Commonwealth back together for over a year."

"Yeah." Morgan hesitated, glancing down at the ground. "It suits you, Preston."

One of the few times she'd addressed him by his first name. "You think so?"

"I do." She nodded. "Look, I'm - I'm sorry for how things have been, this past year. I'm sorry for not helping you as much as I could."

Preston shook his head. "And I'm sorry I tried to pressure you into handling our problems. You were dealing with a lot, and so was I. I wanted someone who would take command and make me feel less... at fault. You were trying to cope with the loss of your family. And, well." He glanced up at the sky. "Everything else, I guess."

"I did my best. So did you. You've accomplished a lot, Preston. You ought to be proud of it. I know you didn't think you were that great a soldier when all this started, but you've done these people proud. You've given people food and shelter, rebuilt the Minutemen from nothing. Without you representing the people, I might have nowhere for the Railroad and the Brotherhood to meet. 'Cause that's what this is all about, isn't it? Stopping the Institute from hurting the people?"

"I hope so." Preston smiled. "I'll go make small talk with the, uh, Elder. You keep a lookout for your people. I'm sure we'll have lots of time to talk after all this is over."

"Sounds good."

And they parted. Morgan chose to wander outside outside the Castle, feeling the guards' eyes on her as she walked down the path to a rusted car at the side of the road. The Castle sat on the edge of the coast, a good walk from the edge of the city, with a sprawling dry-grass field in between. Cold December winds sent chills down her back, making her shiver within her armor. With all the high-octane events happening recently, she hadn't noticed the weather change. She remembered it being cold at the Battle of Bunker Hill, but there had been too much going on for her to pay much attention. A thin layer of white frost covered the ground, clumps of ice crunching under her boots when she walked. Deacon said it'd snowed a few times already, but then a radstorm came in and melted everything again.

She heard Deacon walk out of the Castle and follow her trail to the car, hopping up and sitting on the hood beside her. "Hey there, stranger." He'd tossed the mercenary disguise, going back to his normal jeans and wig. He wore several thick sweaters, heavy mittens over his hands, and military boots he'd probably swiped from the Brotherhood.

"Hey." Morgan gave him a faint smile. "Sorry you've had to play second fiddle during all this."

"No, it's great." Deacon leaned back, wincing as the icy metal of the car seeped cold into his jeans. "Believe me. I live to fade into the background and watch things play out. When all this is over? I'll write a book. A history book. It'll be in libraries. It'll be taught in schools. I'll be a legend."

"Writing history textbooks generally implies telling the unaltered truth, Deacon. Are you sure you're capable of that?"

Deacon grinned. "Well, I mean... does it _all_ have to be unaltered? You sure I can't just sneak in a sidebar about Maxson having a tiny-"

"I don't think that's allowed, no."

"Well, who's gonna stop me?" he asked, throwing his hands up.

"Me, for the sake of historical accuracy."

"Damn." He rested his hands on his stomach, laying his head on the frame of the busted windshield and staring up at the sky. The wind howled through the trees around them. "I'm glad you went with the peaceful option," he said, after a moment. "It's good. I think we might stand a chance of getting this right."

"If Des or Maxson don't say anything stupid and cause a war," Morgan added.

"Well, that's why we're here. With our pretty faces and bedazzling charms, we'll stop any conflict before he starts." He exhaled, watching his breath spiral up in a white plume. "I can't believe it's almost over," he murmured.

"The fight against the Institute?"

Deacon nodded. "I mean, I've... I've been doing this for twenty years. I knew people - before they died - who'd been doing it for longer than that. At the Switchboard, we actually stood a chance, but I guess that's what made the Institute try to get rid of us. After that, after what happened, I really thought we were on a clock, ticking down every second, any moment our last. And, I guess, if you hadn't been around, it was only a matter of time before the Brotherhood found us and our time was up. Now... Now we're so close. You've been to the Institute and back. We're negotiating an alliance between the three biggest factions. We've got a revolution at the ready. We could be just a few weeks - a few days - from ending it all. I don't know what I'm going to do after that."

Morgan swallowed, letting his words hang in the air for a moment before she broached the topic. "Look after Donny?" she offered. "He'll need someone to take care of him. With the Institute gone, we don't know what will become of the Railroad, or anyone else. We've gotta look after him." Her smile melted, the light in her eyes dimming. "Especially if one of us doesn't come back."

Deacon opened his mouth to contradict her, but no argument came, and he exhaled another cloud of white mist as his face fell. "If one of us doesn't come back," he repeated.

"Not everyone will," Morgan pointed out, softly. "There's no chance we'll get through this without casualties. It could be you, it could be me. Could neither of us, if we're lucky, but they might target me because I'm a traitor. They might target you if they think you're close to me. We don't know what they'll do. But it'll be big. If one of us dies, it falls to the other to look after Donny."

Deacon faltered. He sat, wordless, his lips parted like he had something on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed, his shoulders curling in, some kind of earnest emotion written in his brow. "Morgan, I-"

"Hush." Morgan's senses tingled, and she looked from him back out into the city. Her eyes traced the buildings for a moment before she caught sight of it again. Two figures. One, dressed in an over-sized woolen coat and shuffling around the debris towards the Castle. The other, much smaller and faster, racing over the debris and bouncing in circles around the first figure. Gradually they came into focus, and soon, a head of stringy red hair was barreling towards them.

"You made it!" And Donny hit Morgan full force, making her stumble back as he threw his arms around her. Morgan stopped, shocked, then smiled and returned the hug, running her hands over the boy's head and squeezing him tight.

"We told you," she murmured. Donny gave her a bright smile and switched to Deacon, who swooped him up with a big grin and hugged him.

"Hey there, Big Don," Deacon chirped, Donny's arms around his neck. "Did you behave while we were gone?"

"Nope!" Donny replied, with a pop of his lips on the P sound.

"That's my guy." For a moment, they were all smiles, laughing and communing and saying hello. But then, Desdemona's footsteps stopped with a final, icy crunch, and everyone's joy faded. She looked haggard, deep shadows under her eyes, normally smooth hair unbrushed. She held her lips in a tight, grim line, and didn't speak. Just stared.

"Des," Morgan greeted.

"Morgan." The alpha's eyes glimmered with intensity, borderline malice visible in her gaze.

Morgan took a breath. "It's the only way, Des. We can't do this alone, and I couldn't kill everyone. This is what it's going to take."

Des glared a few moments longer, then exhaled, pulling her scarf up over her nose. "I suppose it's too late, now."

"It has to be done."

"You betrayed us," the dark-eyed woman stated. "You betrayed us all."

"You don't own me, Desdemona." Morgan stepped forward. "I'm sorry I didn't discuss this with you before. Really, I am. But things have changed. I'm tired, Des. I'd rather we sacrifice our pride than more lives. You can turn around if you want, go right back to Mercer, never speak to me again. But I'm going to get this done, whatever it takes. You may have started me down this path, but it's my world. My choices. If you leave, I will give the Minutemen and the Brotherhood the plans to build the Molecular Relay, and we will end this war with or without you. Your choice."

A cold wind blew through the yard.

"For Glory," Des said simply. "She wanted them free. I have to do it. For her."

Morgan nodded. "They're waiting for you."

The four of them marched back up the cold road and into the Castle. In the General's quarters blazed a well-tended fireplace, warming the chill stone walls from a hearth at the back of the room. Both Minuteman and Brotherhood soldiers guarded the door, and inside the room, Garvey and Maxson shared small glasses of whiskey. Both men looked up at their arrival, and rose from their seats. "You're the Railroad, then," Maxson stated, expressionless.

"Their representative," Des said coldly.

"Is it a good idea to have him here?" Preston asked, gesturing to Donny. "I mean, no to be rude, but I don't know if this is really a meeting for kids."

Morgan and Deacon shared a look, then looked at Donny, who gave them both a pitiful pout. "You guys have been gone for two whole weeks, and then tell me I can't stay for the important stuff?"

"It's gonna be boring," Deacon warned.

"I'll just sit by the fire and not listen." He held one hand to his chest. "Promise."

"Uh-huh."

Morgan shrugged. "He's seen enough already. I don't see why I should baby him now."

"Well, it's your decision." Preston gestured to the table. "Let's sit down and talk."

When all were seated, Preston offered the newcomers alcohol. They politely refused. A brief, awkward silence descended. "I realize this is unorthodox," Morgan said. Everyone stared at her. "But we're all here, aren't we? We agree that the Institute is the real evil, and that it's worth uniting to stop them. I think you're all aware of the situation regarding the Molecular Relay, the Institute and so on. All that's left is to discuss how we want to attack the Institute, when and where, and what happens after."

A beat passed as Morgan stopped speaking, the other listeners waiting for their turn. Maxson piped up first. "I'll say what we're all thinking. Our biggest hurdle is our view on synths. If we want a chance at unity, we have to make a decision. We need to decide which side is right."

"The synths should be set free," Desdemona stated. "After the Institute is destroyed, and no more synths are being created, _then_ we can talk about what to do about them."

"I disagree," Maxson rumbled. "I will not see these abominations roaming free, for your people to 'rehome' as if they're unwanted animals. We make a decision now. Sentient or not, they are weapons. Leaving them alive would be leaving alive the Institute. For all we know, destroying the Institute could trigger a failsafe inside them, and start the war we're trying to avoid."

"Then what would you want to do?" Des said, glaring. "Leave them inside the Institute? It's with their help that this revolution is happening at all."

"Why make it a revolution?" Maxson shot back. "If Morgan can get my people into the Institute, then let her. Let us fight the Institute without the help of the synths. If they are as weak as she says, then we don't need them to finish this."

"Betrayal, Maxson?" Morgan spoke up. "We promised the synths liberty. It was a fair bargain. Going against their wishes and abandoning them would be unethical."

"You can't promise anything to a machine. You can command a robot, you can wield technology, you can create artificial intelligence, but it does not have sentience."

"They _are_ sentient," Des insisted. "Sentience is a mix of free will and subjective emotions. If they don't have either, why would so many of them want to escape in the first place? Why would they seek freedom from their supposed masters?"

Morgan shook her head. "There's no way to prove through debate if they are sentient or not," she interjected. "The only real way to decide that is with tests. Research. The Brotherhood is about collecting and preserving technology, right? Destroying the synths would be destroying one of the most critical pieces of technology ever designed, second only to the atomic bomb. Let us remove the synths from the Institute. Then we can put them to trial."

Reluctantly, Maxson exhaled, pressing his lips together. "Fine. But I don't want them rehomed, like you people do. I want them exactly as they are, for testing, for research, for examination. I will let them... live, but only if we agree to treat them as artifacts than as living, sentient creatures."

Des opened her mouth, but Morgan raised a hand. "I think that's the best we can do for now."

"What about the people inside?" Preston questioned meekly. "There can't just be synths."

Morgan took a breath. "No. There's not. Altogether, I'd guess that there's hundred living people in there. Maybe more or less, but they strictly control population. There are some children, though not many. Some are very old. I know that some of them are sympathetic to synths, though they don't quite see them as human. I think many of them just have no idea what the Commonwealth is really like. Even the... Director, the leader himself, hasn't left the Institute in sixty years."

"So... are we going to kill them?" Preston looked around the table, seeking an answer.

"Yes," Des said. "They created and enslaved a race of sentient beings. I refuse to show mercy."

"For once, I agree." Maxson pressed his hands to the table. "They replace human beings with artificial versions of themselves. They kill civilians, they steal technology and resources, and they are seeking to exterminate the human race. I say we show them no quarter."

"But that's slaughter," Preston said, spreading his hands in frustration. "That's execution. We can't just walk in and kill them. Even if they are evil, we have to be just."

"Then what do you suggest?" Des asked, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. "They've tried to kill my organization many times over, and threatened the Commonwealth as a whole for over sixty years. We can't just let them go."

"Or, we could," Deacon pointed out. Donny sat astride in his lap, head ducked under his chin and with their backs to the hearth. Deacon raised his eyebrows as all eyes turned to him, and held up his hands in surrender. "Geez, don't kill the messenger. All I'm saying is that maybe a life in the Commonwealth wouldn't be so bad. These guys are supposed to be geniuses, right? Killing them would be a waste. Not to mention unjust, like the good General said. If we blew up their home and said, 'well, good luck with that,' they'd have to learn how to play with others. If nothing else, we could put them on trial or something, like the synths, and give them an option to switch sides after they lost."

The table fell silent for a moment as the party considered. "It's not a bad idea," Maxson allowed. "I know for a fact that there is at least one scientist in the Institute who defected from the Brotherhood after learning about their technology. It would be good to get them back, along with anyone else we could convert to our cause."

"Forcing them to live as equals with the synths might open their eyes," Des admitted. "Besides, letting them walk free would leave them exposed to mob justice. The people of the Commonwealth would decide how they are treated. Perhaps their deaths would be longer and crueler than execution." She gave Deacon a thoughtful nod. "I suppose you do, occasionally, have good ideas."

"That's... not, exactly, the point I was making, but I'll take it."

"Hey Deacon? What's mob justice?"

"Uh, later, kiddo. Later."

Morgan bit back a wry smile. "Now, about the Institute's technology," she began. "I think it's important to destroy the Institute, itself. After all that's happened, we can't evacuate everyone inside it and then just leave it there. But destroying all the data and technology within would be a waste."

"The Brotherhood would be more than happy to take control of it," Maxson piped up. Then, a little grudgingly, he added: "Though I realize the others at this table may be less enthused about the idea."

"Well, ah... What kind of technology does the Institute have? Specifically?" Preston asked.

"Everything, I suppose," Morgan said. "They've got the agricultural technology to plant and cultivate all the food they could ever need, and underground at that. They have power - the electrical kind - that dominates even the Boston Airport. They have their own kind of laser weapons, medical technology that seems like miracles. And that's just what _I_ encountered. I'm sure if you went into their logs and looked through all the experiments and research conducted, from two hundred years ago up until now, the knowledge would be worth its weight in gold."

Morgan swore Maxson was salivating. "That's exactly the kind of thing the Brotherhood exists to preserve," the Elder said, leaning farther over the table. "That could be revolutionary. Who knows what kind of technology they possess, beyond what we already know they're capable of. We could protect it, keep it from falling into the wrong hands, keep it from people who would use it like villains."

"What about the people who'd use it like heroes?" Preston interjected. "All that could vastly improve the quality of life for people in the Commonwealth. Medicine, food, weapons - it could keep us healthy and safe. We might even stand a chance at really making a difference, at rebuilding the world and making it green again. Maybe we could protect ourselves against radiation. Maybe we could save lives. I don't see how locking that stuff up in an oversized vault helps anyone."

"Technology - and, by proxy, power - is corrupting by nature," Maxson countered. "The Brotherhood uses its knowledge only to defend itself. Without our military strength, everything we've collected would be at risk of being stolen and misused by malicious forces. Handing out free food, medicine, and defense to unvetted settlements would be asking for trouble. People would become greedy and ambitious. It would set us on the same path as our forefathers, who destroying the world in their pursuit of resources. The knowledge must be preserved."

"But using the Institute's technology would make our life more sustainable," Preston insisted, frustrated. "If we could use their agricultural technology, if we could teach people their medical knowledge, we could bring people out of the gutter just enough to help them start sustaining themselves, without help. I'm not saying we take all of their technology and make ourselves the new Institute. But if we could use some of it to help people survive, then we could really start to rebuild."

"I say we split it," Morgan announced. "The Brotherhood gets the data, and the military technology. So that no one else can steal it and use it for nefarious purposes. The Minutemen get the benign technology, like medicine and agriculture. We can duke out the fine print after everything's looted and taken care of. I'm sure there'll be an adjustment period. But we agree, then? We take and preserve the technology, and destroy the Institute itself?"

The three faction leaders observed one another for a few moments. Then, at last: "Yes."

"Then it's settled. We evacuate the synths and the scientists from the Institute. The synths are tested to make sure they're not violent or otherwise dangerous, the scientists are put on trial and forced to live in the wasteland, and the technology we scavenge before destroying the Institute for good is divided equally. Is this fair? Can we hold to this agreement before the Institute is destroyed?"

Again, the trio cast wary glances at each other. But the answer was unchanged. "Yes."

"Good." Morgan took a breath, and leaned over the table. "Then it's time to plan for battle."


	21. Chapter Twenty

Morgan zapped into the Institute relay room, a gust of cool underground air blowing against the hot sweat on her skin. She shivered. Opposite the relay, a scientist manned the terminal, his eyebrows shooting into his forehead as she appeared. "You're back," he stuttered.

"Yes," she said, her expression stoic. "And I need to speak with Father. At once."

The scientist fumbled with his terminal, sending a message ahead to Sean and watched at her as she walked past him and into the elevator. People stopped and stared as she floated up, some muttering amongst themselves. Even some synths dared to raise their heads. Z1 looked up from the flowerbeds he was weeding, meeting her eyes almost accusingly. She returned his gaze without emotion, then moved on. Evidently her disappearance had not gone unnoticed.

Sean was waiting for her in his room, pacing slowly, his hands fidgeting. He looked up when she entered, sighing in relief as she approached. "Where have you been?" he questioned. "What on earth have you being doing? Have you heard?"

"I have been trying to resolve the problem," she said, summoning to mind the lie carefully crafted by Deacon and the others. "I heard a rumor that the Brotherhood was going to be more aggressive, so I went to go check it out. That's what I've been doing these past few days - Maxson's finally putting aside his pride and banding with the other faction. He thinks we're the bigger enemy."

"And did you find anything?"

Morgan sighed, letting her shoulders slump. "Some. I know they're coordinating efforts as we speak, at the Castle. But the place was locked down, and no one let in or out of it without special clearance. I considered trying to convince them to let me in, since I knew Preston, but as far as they know, I've been missing for months. They wouldn't let me in just because I asked."

"Damn." Sean cursed under his breath, resuming his pacing. He let out a frustrated sigh, sitting down on his bed with a hand on the edge to steady himself. "Mother, I..." He tried to start a thought, but weariness pulled at him, shadows blossoming under his eyes as he labored to breathe.

A prickle of concern and confusion tingled in the pit of her stomach. "Sean?"

The old man collected himself after a second. He took a deep breath, gripping the side of his bed so tight his knuckles went white. "I do not know if I am ready for this fight." He met her eyes, Nate's earnest green-hazel irises looking into hers. "Every day, I lose more and more of my strength. Even simple pacing exhausts me. I... I find I must pass my power to you, Mother." Morgan stared at him, lips parted in shock. Sean released a sad sigh, and extended his free hand. "Help me."

Morgan stepped forward dumbly and held his hands, lifting the sheets and propping up the end of the bed so he sit up enough to face her. Her son's hand seemed so small and weak in her own.

When reclining, Sean relaxed, exhaling and closing his eyes. "I have informed the other departments," he breathed, peering at her through narrow eyelids. "You shall inherit the Institute. I am not strong enough to defend us in this upcoming battle. Without a capable leader at the helm, our projects will become obsolete. Mankind Redefined needs someone with the passion to make our dream come true. And without a strong leader, the Institute may fall when the Commonwealth strikes back. I leave it to you, Mother." His eyes flicked to the desk against the left wall. "My Directorate password. Right side, second drawer. With the information on my terminal, you will have complete authority."

Morgan turned to move to the desk, but Sean stopped her. "Mother." His cool, skeletal hand clutched around her fingers. "I know we've had our differences. I realize you may have your misgivings, and me mine. But there is no one I trust with this but you. We are family, Mother." His thumb stroked across her knuckles in an almost affectionate gesture. "My blood made the Institute what is it today. You are a part of me. I believe you will lead the Institute to great things."

Morgan swallowed. "I'll do my best, Sean."

The light in Sean's eyes faded. "Call me 'son', Mother. Please. Just this once."

She trembled, and it took everything in her not to recoil from the old, dying, terribly earnest man clinging to her palm. "I will lead the Institute to great things, my son."

A faint smile spread across his face, and he released her. "Thank you."

Then his eyes fell shut, and he began to doze. Or die. Morgan didn't care to think on it. She crept to the desk and quietly opened the drawer, pushing through the papers and finding the unmarked holotape hidden at the back. She slid it into her pocket, closed the desk, and left.

She retraced her footsteps back to the bottom floor of the Institute, where the elevator waited for her. She passed Z1, staring off into the other direction to make it look like an accident when they bumped into each other. As their shoulders collided, she turned her head and murmured into his ear. " _Saoirse_." It meant 'freedom' in her mother's native tongue, and was just obscure enough to be mistaken for a sneeze or mumble. The hairs on the back of Z1's neck stood up.

She went back down the elevator after pocketing a thing of nutritional goo from the mess hall, waiting until she was back in the Relay room to open it. The scientist manning the terminal seemed shocked when she returned. Morgan waved a hand at him. "Wanted some privacy," she said. "It's quiet down here." She ripped open the biodegradable plastic wrap and stuck her compostable plastic spoon inside, shoveling a spoonful into her mouth. Banana-mango, otherwise known as flavor #91.

One by one, synths began to file in. Careful, quiet, not too many at once to be noticeable. In truth, if the terminal man had been paying attention, he might have questioned why there were now a dozen synths milling around, pretending to take inventory of the shelves nearby or repair some screws or loose panels in the wall.

Morgan's skin prickled when Z1 descended into the room, meeting her eyes for a moment before going to the shelves, waiting for her signal. The sudden sensation reminded her of that moment in the West Stands, in Diamond City, with Kellogg's shirt in her hand and Dogmeat panting in front of her. She remembered that brief, terrible moment, when the world seemed too loud and too heavy and her vision dimmed until she felt like she was staring through someone else's eyes. She assumed that Dogmeat would take her to Kellogg, to her son, and then it would all be over. Then she'd have to accept that she wasn't a fit mother, that she was broken, that she'd missed out on ten years of her son's life, and that she had no home to return to.

Then, she had feared the future. Now…

Her nutrition cup was empty.

Morgan crumpled it into a ball, tossing it aside with a faint clink as the thin plastic struck the floor tiles. She padded across the room, keeping her steps soft, stopping just behind the poor man at the relay terminal. "I'm sorry," she said, then slid her arm around his neck. His throat bobbed against the crook of her elbow, and she pressed one hand to the back of his head and flexed her bicep. He coughed, sputtered, clawed at her hands. At last, he choked, and slumped against her.

Morgan held him a moment longer to ensure he was knocked out, then released him. A few synths dragged him around the corner and hid him behind some boxes. Morgan sat down at the terminal and input the holotape bearing Sean's Directorate code. She searched for the right coordinates, counted the number of bodies to bring up. Then pressed enter.

A dozen bright blue lightning bolts burst in the Relay room, its brass metal walls sparking with electricity as it brought forth the chosen targets. Preston, Des, Maxson. Then Deacon, and- Donny, surprisingly enough. Then three Minutemen, three Brotherhood soldiers, and Tinker Tom.

"Whoa!" Donny's eyes went wide. "Whoa! It's so clean!"

"Donny?" Morgan stood up abruptly, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

The boy ran forward, giving her a wide smile. "Deacon let me come!"

Morgan shot Deacon a look as he and the others entered the room. "Donny, it's very dangerous here. You shouldn't have come. People are going to get hurt."

Donny pouted. "But everyone else is going! I got to sit in on the peace treaty, and besides - this is the only time I'll ever get to see the Institute! I promise I'll be good, and stay out of danger." He sighed, tugging at her fatigues and pouting harder. "I know I'll be safe with you."

As Morgan tried to combat Donny's pleading, Z1 emerged from the crowd of apprehensive, silent synths. "Are you the Railroad?" he asked tentatively, observing the group exiting the Relay room.

Maxson bristled, and Des stepped forward, bearing all the gravitas of leadership. "Yes. And others. We're here to help. I take it you're Z1?"

For once, Z1 lost some of his intensity as he breathed a sigh of relief. "You have no idea how much this means to us. All of us."

And so they retrieved their weapons from their many secret caches. Guns scrounged from the corpses of raiders. Modded monstrosities Morgan bought on Bunker Hill discounts. Guns and armor pieces lifted from the Minutemen reserves. They looked too much like store mannequins, with generic faces and fit bodies, covered in patchwork gear like some kind of ironic Pre-War fashion models.

Maxson looked ill.

"No alarms have been set off, yet, I don't think," Morgan piped up, resting a hand on Donny's head as he leaned against her. "But as soon as we go up into the facility, that will change."

"I can hack into the mainframe and shut down some of the doors, so they can't get through all at once," Tom offered.

"Good idea." Morgan nodded. "Only let them through one passage at a time, secure each room and move on to the next. We should have a separate team be relaying out with as much tech as we can, while the battle is going on. If... If we don't succeed, we can at least gain something from this."

"An excellent suggestion." Maxson raised his chin, clasping his hands behind his back in the regal pose he so often favored. "Bring up more Paladins. As discussed, my people will manage the forefront of the attack. My scribes and some Minutemen can assist with the removal of the technology."

"Sounds like a plan." Gently, Morgan nudged Donny away from her, kneeling down to look him in the eye. "Donny, I want you to stay here and look after Tinker Tom. You help him and give him whatever he needs, you understand?" Around them, soldiers marched forward, preparing to charge into the heart of the facility. "I'm not going to lose you."

Donny pressed his lips together, giving her a firm and wide-eyed nod. "Yes, Morgan."

Her throat choked, and she stood for a final hug as another wave of soldiers relayed into room. They parted, and Deacon came up behind them, sweeping Donny into his arms and hoisting him up from the ground, squeezing him tight and then dropping him beside Tom. Deacon and Morgan waved, Donny took a seat beside the Tinker, and the end began.

* * *

No one expected it when the first Brotherhood Paladin stormed through the hallway and beheaded the nearest security synth. Humanoid synths and scientists screamed, cowering behind benches and under desks. As soon as the first shot was fired, red light replaced the natural glow of the sunlamps. The rhythmic, incessant beeping of the alarms thrummed in their ears like a heartbeat. Previous generation synths and menacing Coursers flooded into the room, ready to fight back.

Some of the Railroad fired at the scientists in the beginning. Des let it slide, but Morgan made her voice heard over all the commotion. "We do not fire on civilians!" she bellowed, slapping aside the barrel of an offending agent. "You take and tie them and leave them for the Scribes!" At Morgan insistence, Des reluctantly made in an official order. The scientists and the scientists' children, while sustaining a few bumps and bruises, were caught and carried out, held in the Relay room for security.

First, they took the main room. Tom slammed the doors shut as soon as he wrenched control from the system using Morgan's Directorate code. One by one, the doors to each department slammed shut, going into lockdown and securing the center room. They could hear the sound of synths and Coursers trying to blow or burn through the thick metal. Donny's voice boomed over the intercom just as the main room was secured. "Head to Advanced Systems next!" he shouted, with the quaver of someone caught between anxiety and excitement. "Cut off their weapons supply!"

Morgan couldn't help a smile. Though it faded as she saw agents and Brotherhood alike get taken away on stretchers, medics yanking off bits of power armor to treat a soldier's wounds. Institute fighters flung themselves at the doors of the different facilities, voiceless but not without fury. Morgan suppressed a shiver and turned to the three leaders at her back. "Casualties?"

Maxson hissed as a Scribe plunged a stimpack into his side, blood seeping through his shirt. Desdemona wiped sweat from her brow, talking animatedly to the other synths as Z1 filled her in. Preston took off his hat, pressing it to his chest and stepping forward. "A lot," he said. "But no more than we expected. We've still got a lot more reinforcements coming in through the Relay."

"How many critically wounded?"

"Not sure. They're alternating teleports. Fifteen come in, fifteen go out. Some Railroad agents are using gun-barrel diplomacy to get the scientists to help."

Morgan sighed. "It'll have to do. The Relay room's crowded?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Get the Brotherhood people on the SRB room. That'll be the second hardest thing we do here, but if we can do it, it puts the odds in our favor. I want the Minutemen and the Railroad to take BioScience. They'll have a lot of medical technology, and I want as much of that taken out of here as we can." The closed door of the SRB wing let out an ominous thump, startling the room. "That's where most of the Coursers are," Morgan breathed. "Have everyone left behind cover that door. They could take all of us out if we're not careful." She nodded. "Move out."

The factions split as requested. Minutemen stayed to guard the main room, keeping an eye on the SRB door. The Railroad, the synth, and some Brotherhood Scribes opened and invaded the BioScience wing. Morgan led the charge on Advanced Systems. The scientists there didn't give up without a fight like the others in the main room. Some had strapped on pieces of synth armor and lifted their own laser rifles. They tried to fight non-lethally, with only partial success.

In the BioScience wing, Des and Z1 suppressed the gardeners and genetic researchers that cowered behind their cabbages and banana trees. But those gardeners turned on them by releasing the experimental synth dogs and gorillas banging on the walls of their cages. From the main room, the Minutemen could hear horrible, terrifying screams, followed by roaring and barking. But they stayed. They had to follow orders. They had to cover the doors, or all would be lost.

When they took Advanced Systems, Morgan heard the commotion coming from the main hall. She gathered a squad and raced back to the others, returning to chaos as the Coursers breached the door to the SRB wing and people ran screaming from the BioScience wing with blood-covered beasts at their heels. Maxson stood at the center of it all, in a battered set of Power Armor and wielding a gatling laser. "Fall back to the Relay!" he bellowed, and the others followed suit.

The allied forces let themselves be cornered in the Relay Room, the halls lined with wounded and suffering fighters, filled from wall to wall with and bound scientists and frantic reinforcements. "Donny!" Tinker shouted, his hands flying across the keyboard as he summoned more and more reinforcements, with no time to teleport anyone out. "New batch coming in!"

Fifteen more soldiers appeared in the Relay, but instead of calm orders and a plan of attack, they got a skinny, red-headed boy, reading from an electronic tablet and giving orders. Donny was good at making himself useful, getting people supplies they needed or keeping track of who needed to go where. He was a child of the wasteland - blood and gore didn't scare him, and he was far enough from the battle to stay chipper. "Paladins!" he said.. "Head through that hallway and assist Maxson!"

The armored soldiers looked at each other, then saluted, and raced past him. "Doctor!" a wounded agent wailed, bleeding onto a stretcher not far from Tom. "Where's a doctor? Where's Des?"

"Oh, man." The tinker, already sweating in panic, began to tremble. He leaned over his terminals and put his head in his hands. "Oh man, oh man oh man."

"Tom!" Donny rushed over, his hands full of clipboard and messages and supplies. "Tom, you gotta keep going. You can't stop now!"

"Donny, oh, kid, kid I can't, I gotta-"

"You gotta," Donny insisted, eyes wide. "We can't lose. You gotta do it for everybody. We gotta keep it together, Tom, we gotta do it!"

"Something going on, here?" The pair looked up to see a rather imposing female figure, with greasy red hair, dark eyes, and a suit of modified power armor. "Proctor Ingram, here for duty."

"Uh." Tom's eyebrows shot into his forehead, eyes wide and mouth agape. "Uh."

Donny gave the woman a wide smile. "Are you here to help? Great! I need you to give this to the guy in the white coat with the blood on him and the dark hair and the mole on his chin? What is it you do? Can you pick up a gun? We're-" An explosion went off, making everyone go still as ground shuddered. "We're having some trouble, y'see."

"I see." Ingram frowned. "Are you a squire?"

"Nope!" Donny chirped. "But you gotta go give those pills to the doctor." Someone shouted his name. "Oop! Gotta go!" And he dashed off.

Tom licked his hand and slicked his hair back, attempting to take on a casual posture as Ingram met his eyes. Someone screamed from far away. "So, uh, are you... What's your name?"

* * *

Meanwhile, in the main room, half of Morgan's face was covered in blood as she kicked away the corpse of the Courser that had just tried to strangle her. "How we doing on BioScience!" she shouted, her ears still ringing from the grenades they'd thrown at the dogs.

"We're clear!" Z1 shouted. "We can start moving and treating wounded!"

"Scribes!" Maxson bellowed. "Start transporting wounded to BioScience!"

Preston waved forward the next cluster of engineers. "Get out the food that you can! Get hard drives, get holotapes, everything must go!"

Morgan caught one of the engineers on his way into BioScience, a steely grip on his arm stopping him mid-run. "Look for someplace called the FEV Labs," she ordered. "That's your job. I need you to find some kind of serum. Look for it wherever you find the name Brian Virgil, understand?"

"Can do," he said, and raced after the others.

Morgan tried to wipe the blood from her cheek, but just smeared it across her glove and jaw. She cursed. "I want a final sweep!" she said, and spat to rid the taste of blood from her tongue. "We have to push forward without losing any ground! Balanced teams of Brotherhood, Railroad, and Minutemen. Synths, focus on transport. Clear the tubes and secure the Robotics wing and the SRB. I want shit moved out. Wounded, tech, everything. Strip this place fucking _bare_."

A resounding cry of "Yes ma'am!" came from all corners. The factions divided into equal groups with the direction of the faction leaders, racing off in all directions and pushing back the remaining Institute forces. The odds were in their favor, though they couldn't celebrate until this place was gone for good.

Blood and craters covered the floor of the main hall. The crisp green grass that circled the elevator was now dry and unkempt, dirt exposed where it had been blown open by an explosion or bullet. Cool, clean water still ran through the decorative streams, so medics had a steady supply and soldiers could stay hydrated. Morgan vaguely remembered that Des had been carried off after the assault on BioScience. Her heart ached. She pushed on.

"Deacon-" She spoke, then realized he wasn't behind her. She was so used to him always being near, she hadn't thought to look for him in a while. "Deacon?" Dazedly, she spun in a circle, looking for a familiar head of dark hair and shining sunglasses. There was no one. The main room was empty. Questioning the faction leaders revealed that no one else knew where he was, either.

He had vanished.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

No one saw the elevator ascend amidst all the commotion. Deacon stood in the center of the platform, crossing his fingers in the hope that no one would take notice and bomb the hell out of the elevator tube. He couldn't help a small flicker of pride as Morgan gestured magnificently, giving orders and holding everything together. Donny, too, held his own against the influx of strangers and fear and fighting. But Donny had always been a strong kid. Sure, he had a lingering fear of parental abandonment, but he did good in most other aspects.

But. Something had told him to take this elevator. It was the same feeling that told him to dress up and walk into raider dens, the same feeling that made him throw firecrackers at ghouls, the same feeling he got when he'd first seen Morgan crawl out of that Vault. It was important. He just knew.

Now, rising steadily above the raging battle, Deacon understood what Morgan meant when she said the Institute was "quiet." The sounds of combat drifted away, leaving behind the low, unsettling hum of the generators. Everything was too white, too clean, too quiet. Too ominous, omniscient, strange and ethereal. He couldn't imagine living in such a quiet place and not going insane.

The elevator stopped and opened, so he walked on. Through winding halls, past emotionless pictures and vases and color-coded mini-maps. Whatever instincts guided him pulled him through the transport tubes, up empty spiraling staircases, to a doorway facing an empty plexiglass cage. Through that, he found himself in a bedroom.

He noticed the bed's occupant last, first seeing the white walls, the white floors, the cleanliness and the slight dabs of color where fake flowers and computer screens decorated everything. And then the intense-eyed geriatric, breathing shallowly and staring at him. "Oh hi," Deacon said, using cheerfulness to mask his discomfort. "Fancy meeting you here."

" _You_." The word reeked of accusation. "You're with them. You were with my _mother_."

Deacon blinked. "You're Sean?"

"I am the Director of the Institute. The rightful one." He lifted a hand from beneath his blanket, beckoning the agent closer with a crook of his skeletal claw. "Come here." Deacon obeyed. Sean lifted his chin and met the other man's eyes, taking in his appearance, his clothes, the grim line of his mouth. "Take off your sunglasses." Deacon did so. "You have very blue eyes," Sean said, after a moment.

"All the better to see you with, my dear," Deacon quipped, unsmiling.

Sean pressed his lips together. "Why do this? Why turn her against me? Why ruin everything good that we've done here? What gives you the _right_?"

"What gives _you_ the right?" Deacon replied, without anger. "You kidnapped people from the Commonwealth. Parents, siblings, children. You never asked us if we wanted your help."

"You would not have understood our intentions if we offered."

"That still doesn't justify what you've done. I don't know what kind of person could justify that to themselves." Without his sunglasses, everything felt so terribly white and bright and raw. He felt naked and seen, but here, with just the two of them, he felt brave enough to stand his ground. "And she was on our side long before she met you. You just didn't see it because you thought you loved her."

Sean blinked, a glimmer of shock breaking his intensity. He looked away, staring at the ceiling. "She lied," he murmured, as if baffled by the thought. "She's lied to me, all this time."

"Ever since she went through the Relay she's been lying. As a licensed con man, I think she did a great job, if I do say so myself. I don't know if I could have done it better." He paused. "Well, probably, but by Morgan's standards of 'stare and say nothing' her deception was very impressive."

"Enough," Sean snarled, hatred rattling up his throat and dripping from his lips. "I blame you and your people for this. When the Commonwealth falls, and in hundreds of years you're still scrabbling in the dirt like mice, then you'll understand what we were trying to do."

"Maybe if you got out more, you'd see that we're not." Deacon sounded very soft and solemn. "We're human beings. And being human isn't about being clean or smart or strong enough to take things from other people. It's about being free. That's the one thing that unites all of us. Our desire to live our own lives, by our own choices. And as soon as you take that from someone else, you become a monster. Mr. Sean, sir, I hate to say it, but you created a race of beings more human than you are."

Sean scowled, but he exhaled instead of getting angry again. "I suppose it doesn't matter now," he said, playing the part of gracious king in defeat. "You've won. The Institute will fall."

"We haven't won yet," Deacon pointed out.

"Oh, but you have," the old man breathed. "I'm dying. With Morgan clearly unwilling to take my place, my department heads will fight among themselves like vultures over a fresh corpse, and leadership will crumble. My synths have betrayed me, and without them, without their labor, we cannot maintain the facility. And even if your people lose, you've already come here once. You will come again. And again. And again, until we fall and you are victorious."

"Maybe you should reconsider your life choices, considering how many people seem to hate your guts, sir."

Sean opened his mouth to talk back, but exhaustion claimed him again. "What is your name?"

Deacon wondered which alias he should give. Perhaps he should claim to be a synth himself. Get in one last dig at this frail old man, some kind of sick vengeance for all that he'd done. But perhaps it was the silence. Perhaps it was that this was The End and that he had nothing left to lose. Perhaps it was just for comedy value.

Deacon told the truth. "I'm Sean."

The old man's eyebrows rose, and he let out a cold, hacking laugh, where spittle flew up past his teeth and he coughed at the end of it, his thin shoulders trembling with his gust of mirth. At last he slumped back against the bed, staring blearily at the ceiling. "Oh, Mother."

"She doesn't know," the agent said quickly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "No one knows. It's an old name from a long time ago, but it was my first one."

Sean's humor faded, and stared at Deacon - at Sean - with a new, strange gleam in his eye. "What are they going to do?" he asked, though his meaning was clear.

"Bomb it all to hell," Deacon said. "They'll set the explosives once the whole facility is secured. Once everyone's evacuated, they'll pull the trigger and the Institute will be gone."

The faint light in the old man's eyes seemed to dim even further. "Do you really think you're doing the right thing, Sean?"

"I do."

Sean sighed. He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut as he made the effort to sit up. "Then let me rise," Morgan's son said. extending a bony hand. "And let me greet this brave new world."

* * *

" _Deacon_!"

At last she heard the low hum of the elevator and looked up, face contorting in horror as she saw the two figures inside. Deacon and Sean stood together, Sean with one hand on a white cane and the other wrapped around Deacon's neck. The elevator hit the ground and they stepped out, their footsteps a harmonious pitter-patter on the smooth Institute floor.

"What are you doing?" Morgan whispered.

"I have come for an honorable death, Mother," Sean stated, pulling away from Deacon and putting his weight on his cane. He trembled, and for a moment looked as if he would fall, but did not. "I will not die in my bed like a coward. If you are to take my life's work from me, at least let me do so standing. A captain goes down with his ship, and I will stay at my helm until I sink."

Behind them, all the lights in the adjacent departments turned off with a heavy noise. "Lights off," Tom said over the intercom. "People's sayin' they got all the good stuff carried out. Oh, and Morgan, they got you your serum stuff. We're good."

"Thanks, Tom," Morgan murmured.

"I was going to make you an offer, as well," Sean continued, clutching his cane with a white-knuckle grip. "Sean - that is, the synth version of myself. I would give him to you."

Her eyebrows rose into her forehead. "Why?"

"As a peace offering. He was a tool I designed to capture you. Bait to the spider's web. But he is fully functional, if immortal and ageless like all the other synths. He would be the son you never got to have." He gestured to the elevator. "I could tell you where to find him."

"That's-" She faltered, searching through her jumbled mind for some kind of response. The son she never had. She remembered, in a vague, dreamlike sort of way, the only time she'd met that boy. The one with Nate's eyes and her hair, who recoiled from her like some kind of monster. Then, unbidden, a different face appeared in her mind's eye. A skinny, smiling face, shining blue eyes looking up at her from under a mop of red hair. A boy who tinkered with electronics and loved comic books and who she loved more than she had ever loved the man who Sean became.

"I lost my son a long time ago," Morgan murmured. "I think it's time I moved on."

Sean stared at her, then closed his parted lips and swallowed. "As you wish, Mother." For a moment, Morgan saw tears glimmering in his eyes. Pity pulsed through her. Then she turned, saw the trail of blood leading down the hall into the Relay room, saw the brown streaks where corpses had been dragged back to the teleporter for a proper burial. She decided she didn't feel very pitying after all.

"I think it's time to go," she declared, addressing no one in particular. "Deacon?"

"Got your back, boss," he said, with the same confidence as ever. He helped Sean onto one of the few still-standing benches around the main room, then followed Morgan back to the Relay.

Sean could hear the distant lull of human voices. Surviving soldiers talking amongst themselves in subdued tones. The wounded and injured wailing for pain medication. Blood-covered warriors drunk on victory congratulating one another. At last, his Institute went silent. All the lights were off except for those in the main room. The smell of blood and other bodily fluids filled the air. Cords and bits of circuits littered the floor, along with papers and spent ammo casings. Everything was quiet.

Then the elevator hummed - the last piece of machinery Morgan's army had left functioning. "You sent for me, Father?" the small boy said, stepping out of the elevator and joining him on the bench.

"I did," the old man said, wrapping his arm around the child's shoulders. The dark-haired boy with the familiar face leaned into the touch.

"Father, where is everyone?"

"They've gone away for a little while. Don't worry. Everything will be fine."

"Oh." The boy nodded. "Father?"

"Yes, my boy?"

"Do you think I'll ever get to see my mother again?"

Sean swallowed. "Perhaps. Now, close your eyes, Sean. It's time to rest."

"Yes, Father."

* * *

Tom relayed everyone out onto a skyscraper miles away from CIT. Everyone was waiting for them when Morgan and Deacon showed up. Donny ran over as the blue lightning fades, shouting their names ecstatically. "You're here!" He clasped them both in a hug. "I was so worried."

As the trio exchanged embraces, Maxson, Preston, and Z1 approached. "Tom's rigged the explosives to go on your command," Preston said, his voice firm and steady. "Now it's up to you."

Morgan stood up, Donny standing between her and Deacon. "Where's Des?" she asked, brow furrowed in concern. "Is she alright?"

"She's in critical care," Maxson rumbled. "When they invaded BioScience, she was at the front. The gorillas the scientists released injured her badly and took her left arm off at the elbow."

Donny clung tighter to Deacon's legs. "Will she be alright?" Morgan questioned.

"We don't know yet, I'm afraid," Z1 piped up. "But there are many who are injured. We have a more pressing task at hand," he reminded gently.

Morgan exhaled and nodded, feeling shivers creep up her spine and send tingles into her fingers. As the faction leaders rejoined the crowd, Deacon caught her hand. "Do you need something?" He squeezed her hand with meaning.

Morgan shook her head. "No. I can do this. This is all we have left to do." she stepped around her boys and approached lip of the roof, a single metal railing all that stood between her and several miles of falling distance. From here, she could see the distant, curved dome of the CIT campus. When she closed her eyes, she could see Sean's face, staring at her with tears in his eyes. She flipped open the top of the small plastic box, exposing the worn red button inside. An antenna jutted far out beyond the box, pointed at the CIT campus. Behind her, the crowd fell silent.

Morgan felt her breath come in shaky, shuddering gasps, her shoulders threatening to curl in, the prickling pain that signaled the beginnings of a panic attack. But here, for once, she felt brave. She felt as though she were standing on a precipice, on a jagged cliff overlooking a vast ocean. Her fear was the natural fear of falling. Her bravery came from knowing she would not. She pressed the button.

Silence. Then, thunder. Telling, rolling thunder. They watched the CIT dome crack and split, the ground beneath it crumble and sink inward to fill the sudden hole created by the explosions. The earth shuddered and tore and sent waves of force rippling outwards across the ground in massive clouds of dirt and dust. As each bomb went off, great and terrible spirals of flame spewed upwards. black plumes of smoke rose from CIT's corpse, rising into the sky and blowing away in the wind. At last the smoke and flame melted away, exposing a crater where the Institute had once been.

Suddenly, Morgan was transported back to a year and a half ago, where she stood on that cold blue-and-yellow platform, her baby in her arms and Nate holding her tight, assuring her that everything would be fine. Sean wailed, and she watched that mushroom cloud rise into the pink and orange morning sky, heralding the dawn of a new era.

She blinked, and she was back, cheers booming behind her as the earth settled. People shouted and clapped and weeped with joy. People who otherwise hated each other hugged and cried. A tear rose to Maxson's eye. Preston took off his hat and held it to his chest. Donny raised his arms over his head and cheered. "It's over," Z1 said, almost disbelieving. "At last. We're free."

"All of us are free," Preston said, smiled at the synth. "We couldn't have done it without you."

And so began the congratulations. The thanking, the hoping, the planning for the new world. But the loud noise was giving Morgan a headache, and all she wanted was to go someplace quiet, and dark. Someplace she could sleep. She waved a hand behind her vaguely. "Deacon."

And then Deacon was there, his hand wrapped around hers. "Hey, Donny!" he called. "Go make sure Tinker Tom doesn't need any help. Morgan and I are gonna be on the ground floor."

Donny shouted a reply Morgan didn't catch, but Deacon guided her to the elevator, pressing the button to take them to bottom. The heavy doors shut with a creak, and they descended, the light above them flickering. But it was quiet, and Morgan breathed a sigh of relief. Soon, the elevator released a warped ding, and deposited them in the lobby of what had once been some lavish hotel. They walked through what was left of the fine couches and tables, and stood alone in the middle of the street.

Deacon squeezed her hand. He hadn't let go since he first took hold of it. "You okay?"

Morgan blinked. "I don't know," she admitted, voice soft. "I don't know."  
"It's over," Deacon said, watching the thick clouds swirl above them. "It's done."

Morgan's lip quivered, and she made a breathy noise. Then another. Then that breath turned into a giggle, then a chuckle, then a laugh. Heat blossomed behind her eyes and tears streamed down her cheeks, making wet lines over the grime encrusting her skin. She ran her hands over her face, laughing and weeping with her face contorted in confusion. "I don't know- I don't know-"

Deacon moved his hand from her palm to her bicep, pulling her to his side and letting her lay her head against his shoulder, still sobbing. He sniffed, and used his free hand to wipe at his eyes. "Come on, boss, don't get me emotional," he tried. "I don't want to smudge my mascara."

She laughed, delirious and exhausted, and rubbed her wet nose on his shoulder before standing upright. "God, fuck. _Fuck_. Fuck everything."

"I concur." Deacon fiddled with his wig, one hand still clasped around her. Morgan soon calmed down, and they sighed, the harsh winter winds whipping around them. "What do you want to do now?"

"I don't know," Morgan sighed.. "Without the Railroad, you and I don't really have a home to go to." She paused. "Donny'll need someplace to stay," she amended. "We should... probably, get him into a school, or something. Get him an actual bed instead of a mattress on the floor."

"We'd need a source of income," Deacon added. "Our dirty communist Railroad paid expenses, but unless you want to be a merc again, we'll need something to keep us fed and in clothes."

"We should stay somewhere with doctors nearby," Morgan added. "You and I aren't getting any younger. If something happens to us - or Donny - we shouldn't be far from a clinic."

"It's got to be somewhere safe. But I don't necessarily want to live in a big city like Diamond City or Goodneighbor, or something like that."

"Deacon, I-" Morgan's change in tone made him look at her, his eyes on the profile of her face as she frowned. "The last time something like this happened, my world blew up. Literally," she said. "I didn't get a happy ending then. What makes you think this is going to be a happy ending now?"

"I mean." He frowned. "It's not really a 'happy' ending, it's just sort of... an ending. This isn't a fairytale. I'm sure there'll be more down the line that we have to deal with. But I'm tired. Like, really tired. If the Institute's gone, I don't know what I have to do. But it's like you said. We've got Donny. Maybe you and I are hopeless, but… he has a chance of being happy."

"So it's not about us," Morgan finished. "It's about him." She nodded. "I can live with that." Deacon squeezed her hand and started to move away, raising a hand to his chin and readying a smart remark. But Morgan held tight to his hand, making him look back at her. "Deacon-" The words caught in her throat, leaving her lips parted and her eyes wide and uncertain. She swallowed. "I trust you," she finished, because she couldn't bring herself to say what she really meant.

But it meant the same thing, in the end. Heat rose behind Deacon's eyes, and he swallowed, pulling her into a hug and wrapping his arms around her. Morgan clung back, gripping tight to his coat, her head tucked under his chin. And then, in the quiet, above their lonely street, it began to snow.


	23. Epilogue

The sun shone bright above the beach, the sky filled with puffy white clouds and sunbeams falling through them. The ocean lapped against the shore, turning the sand cool and squishy, perfect for sinking your toes into. Desdemona crept forward, stopping when the waves brushed against her toes and soaked her shoes. Her hair blew in the cool coastal winds, faint sea spray sprinkling her skin. Distantly, she heard the obnoxious Diamond City radio being played full blast. The sound grew louder, along with the squealing of peeling tires.

Her face softened. "They're here."

She watched as the sound grew louder and a black convertible came around the corner, pulling to a stop alongside the road, an Old World big band blasting from its speakers. As soon as the tires slowed, a lanky figure hopped over the side. Red curls framed a skinny face, and he wore overalls over faded t-shirt, his scandals leaving thin prints in the sand. "We're here!"

"Calm down," came a surly, familiar voice. "Donny, stay in the fuckin' car. Deacon, get your-"

A small child yelled happily. Two figures emerged from the front seat of the car. One of them had a small, red-headed child balanced on his shoulders. "I've _got_ it, Morgan, it's fine."

"It's _not_ fine, it-"

Their voices faded away. There was some bickering. The two figures stood close to each other, gesturing. The small child yelled again. The taller, lankier one ran over, taking the child from the tallest person's shoulders. Then they parted, the two redheads and the tall man going to the edge of the water, and the woman wandered over to Desdemona.

"Hello, Des."

"Hello, Morgan." Behind them, the lanky teen helped the small child into the water, the baby giggling as the ocean washed up over its toes. The tall figure sat down on the beach, stretching his legs.

"It's been a long time." Morgan's eyes flickered over her form. Des had gained some weight since they parted. No longer was she skeletal from years of poor eating and stress. Her eyes were less shadowy, but pain lurked behind them. Morgan's eyes rested on the apparatus jutting from Desdemona's left elbow. "How's that been working out for you?"

Des shrugged. "Tom got it working for me. I suppose the Institute is good for something." For emphasis, she tapped the fingers of her arm together, the metal clicking and grinding against itself.

Morgan's eyes drifted down to the sand, where a simple wooden cross stood above a grassy part of the beach. "This her?"

Des nodded. "She liked the beach," she said, quietly. "She liked the way it went on for miles and miles, never ending. Not like the confinement of the Institute. I thought it was fitting."

"It is." Morgan sighed, glancing back at the people behind her.

Desdemona followed her gaze. "Is she yours?"

The small child had red hair, though a lighter shade and less curly than Donny's. Bright blue eyes and a cherubic face, she toddled around in a simple dress, clinging to Donny or Deacon, chasing and fleeing the waves as they pushed and pulled against the sands. Morgan shrugged. "It's… what we wanted," she said. "While we still could. While _I_ still could. We're not getting any younger." She ran a hand through her hair, grimacing. "I found a gray hair the other day."

Desdemona chuckled, gray streaks already visible in her thinning locks. "Welcome to approaching forty."

"Yeah." Morgan scratched her nose. "Donny's getting so big. I just wish he'd grow width-wise instead of length-wise. He eats like a goddamn yao guai and he's still all bone."

"Boys that age are like that. Has he started chasing after girls yet?"

"Not that I know of. He spends all his time in the garage with Deacon, fiddling with their cars or inventions or jet-powered sleds. Don't ask. Saoirse is a good girl, though. She takes after Deacon." She pursed her lips. "Though it's sometimes trying to be surrounded by gingers all the time."

"That's the Boston Irish for you." Desdemona glanced at the ground. "Virgil went off with the Brotherhood, you know. They sent a vertibird to deliver the serum to his cave. Last I heard, they're trying to weaponize that same serum against the mutants. Maybe even come up with a ghoul version."

"That's good. Well, at least the part about Virgil getting what he wanted."

"Mhm." Desdemona stared at the profile of the other woman's face for a moment. "Why?"

"Why what?" Morgan met her eyes.

"Why did you disappear?"

Morgan exhaled, her shoulders slumping. "I think we just needed time away for a while. We didn't mean to go off the grid, really. We wanted somewhere to recuperate. But then camping by a ruined house became living in the ruined house. Living in the ruined house became rebuilding the ruined house. Then we wanted a garden. Then a garden became Brahmin. Then we decided we wanted a baby. Then we wanted the baby to be a little older before we went anywhere. One month becomes a year, one year becomes two, and then…" She waved a hand. "Five years have gone by."

Des nodded. "Life sneaks up on you that way."  
They stood and watched the others play in the water. Saoirse was making mud pies with Deacon. Donny had his overalls rolled up to his knees, and was rooting through the beach for seashells and crabs. Morgan spoke, still staring at her family. "I don't know if we'll live long enough to see them have children," she admitted. "I might live a while longer, but Deacon… Deacon's older than I am. We don't know how much time we have left. We're just trying to make the most of it."

"That's all we can do." Des swallowed, and extended a hand. "I'm sorry. For everything."

Morgan looked back at her. She exhaled, and returned the handshake. "I'm sorry, too."

Then the others wandered over. Deacon said hello, making blithe small talk about how Saorise had just started shooting lasers out of her eyes and was walking by three months. Donny gushed over the infant, and asked if Tinker Tom was going to be at the reunion. They all piled into the car and continued the journey, driving up the winding coastal paths to the Castle.

There had been some debate over when to hold the reunion. Some wanted it to be on Christmas, when the Institute had fallen. Others said they wanted to be with their families, but would be okay with having it in the winter months. Others said they wanted a summertime celebration, when it would be warm instead of freezing and everyone's crops would be planted. Eventually it was decided that the five-year reunion would occur on the summer solstice.

When they reached the Castle, they saw Minutemen and Brotherhood pacing along the battlements, walking side by side like old friends. The wide courtyard inside the Castle was full to the brim with people. Settlers, farmers, synths who'd been there during the Great Invasion. Z1 wasn't attending - he was at the Boston Airport, protesting against the ostracization of synths even after they'd been cleared by the Brotherhood.

Maxson wasn't at the Airport. He was in one of the corners, surrounded by his most top-ranking Paladins, nursing a glass of brandy and awkwardly flirting with a rather pretty Railroad agent. Preston and his wife were showing off their new baby to the younger recruits, while Preston regaled them with stories of what it had been like to take the Institute. Tinker Tom and Ingram were at a table in the corner, Tom eyeing her adoringly and offering to get her another drink. He'd modified her power armor in the years since the battle, so now she only wore it from the waist down, her thick torso exposed to the air.

Donny ran off to say hello to Tom, waving ecstatically. Morgan caught sight of one of the Diamond City reporters weaving through the crowd, brandishing a tape recorder and accosting anyone who'd talk to her. She had well-fitted pants and a loose white overshirt, and a mauve reporters cap balanced on a head of thick, dark hair. Morgan watched Des's eyes follow her through the crowd, and laughed. "Maybe there's someone you can talk to, after all," she said, giving Des a sly smile.

Desdemona cleared her throat and avoided the topic. "I'm going to go get a drink."

Morgan lingered near the door of the Castle, watching everyone file in and out. Carrington seemed to be flirting drunkenly with one of the Minuteman engineers, a burly man in overalls and a Southern drawl. People talked and laughed and shared stories. Some of the veterans were hunched over a bar in the corner, talking lowly amongst themselves. Morgan watched Donny follow Tom like a lost puppy, the two of them hunching over a strange bundle of tubes and fuses.

"You know," Morgan remarked, as Deacon padded up behind her. "I can't tell if Donny wants to _be_ Tom, or has a _crush_ on Tom."

Saorise squirmed, and Deacon handed her to Morgan, the infant curling her tiny fingers into Morgan's shirt. "Maybe he's a narcissist and it's both," Deacon suggested.

"Somehow I doubt it," she replied. Then the food was served, and Maxson gave a speech about how Institute technology had been repurposed to serve the people, and everyone cheered. "Pretty words from a man who wanted a start a war over some cabbage seeds," Morgan snorted.

"Well, you know. Assholes like taking credit for everyone else's achievements." Deacon pressed a kiss to Saoirse's chubby cheek.

As the celebrations went on and the sun approached the horizon, the creatures of the night emerged. Or, in other words, the residents of Goodneighbor showed up to party. John Hancock was there, giving Maxson a pleasant smile as he took a big bite of out a Brotherhood apple. Maxson's jaw tightened, and he stalked away, glowering over to the bar.

John had been trying to claim Goodneighbor as an independent settlement, even as Diamond City and Bunker Hill agreed to join Minutemen territory. Hancock stubbornly resisted the idea of letting anyone else have dominion over his city, and proceeded to expand his borders almost spitefully. Goodneighbor had become the Good Neighborhood, and housed many of the synths that escaped the Institute five years ago. Z1 wasn't a fan of this arrangement, however, and compared it to confining synths to ghettos rather than welcoming them into regular settlements.

This whole party was really a feeble attempt to maintain a precarious peace. The Brotherhood had been getting more uppity as the Minutemen took more and more territory. As the Minutemen became an actual political force, the Brotherhood couldn't shake down farms and towns for supplies without putting themselves at risk of war. Giving them the Institute military technology had created a bittersweet outcome, further empowering an increasingly agitated military power.

The Brotherhood wanted to take back the Commonwealth and accrue more resources. The Railroad and Minutemen had somewhat combined into a singular faction, being the more progressive of the two forces. Soon, a definitive treaty would have to be written up, and both powers forced to abide by it, or a new conflict would break out.

But tonight, Morgan tried not to worry about that.

By nightfall, the fairy lights strung up around the Castle lit up, and a group was playing music for everyone else to dance to. Morgan noticed, smirking, that Des had managed to coerce the cute young reporter into dancing with her. Ingram was clumsily dancing with her lanky, adoring Tinker. Donny was still fiddling with those tubes and fuses on the battlements, though he seemed to be sneaking glances at a few of the younger Minutemen.

"Why aren't you dancing, hero?" Preston prodded, coming up from behind the pair.

"I don't dance," Morgan stated, adjusting Saorise on her hip.

"My boss doesn't dance," Deacon explained.

"Here." Preston reached for the toddler. "Let me take this pretty girl off your hands, and you guys can have a nice night."

"My night would be nicer if I didn't-"

"Come _on_ , Morgan," Deacon said. "Please? Just this once. Let the nice man take the baby."

Morgan shot Deacon a look, but acquiesced, handing Saorise to the General. "Careful, she doesn't like being held like anyone that she doesn't know, she might-"

Preston took the toddler and rested her on his hip with ease. Saorise settled into his grip, giving him a chipper "hi" and relaxing easily. The young man flashed Morgan a bright, toothy smile, one of his trademarked Prince Charming grins. "Don't you guys worry about a thing. We'll be right here."

 _Goddamn fairytale princes_. Morgan sighed and gave in. "Fine. Come on, Deacon."

So Deacon whisked her into the courtyard, where they blended in with the other bodies rocking to the fast beat of the live music. Morgan gave it a half-hearted effort, spending most of her time hiding smiles as Deacon reenacted Pre-War dance moves. "That was out of style when _I_ was a kid, Deacon," she said, as he bobbed his head obnoxiously.

"It's retro," he quipped, and she chuckled.

"Attention! Attention!" Donny's voice rang out over the music. The musicians quieted down and everyone looked up. Donny beamed. "We have a special surprise for you tonight! Would the children and the elderly put their hands over their ears?"

Morgan glanced over to make sure Preston had his hands over Saorise's ears. She looked back, and Deacon had his fingers in his ears. She pulled his hands away. "Which are you?" she asked. "Child or an elderly?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Ready!" Donny boomed. He pressed the end of a burning stick to the fuses of the lined up tubes. Then, one by one, they went off, spewing colored sparks into the air and exploding in a glittering firework, contrasted against the night sky. People cheered, gasping and clapping as various patterns were formed in the sparks.

Morgan leaned back against Deacon's chest as they watched the fireworks, his arm wrapped around her hip, her head resting against the curve of his neck. She could feel the thrum of his heart against her back as each firework whistled and popped in the sky, sparkling bits of ash falling into the ocean. The warm summer night circled her skin like a comforting blanket, leaving her cozy but not overheated. The stars twinkled, and the musicians started up again, playing along as the fireworks flew.

Five years. Six and a half, since she'd entered the Commonwealth. How much things had changed. There were very few times in her life where she had been truly happy, where her joy hadn't been tainted by fear or loneliness. Meeting Nate had been one of those times. Moving to Sanctuary had been another. And, now…

 _Now_ , Morgan thought, the fireworks reflected in her pale eyes, _I think this is a happy ending._

* * *

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened I got to raise Sean, instead of... what did.

I'm sorry I never got to live that life. I'm sorry my husband and my baby were taken from me. I'm sorry so many people died - Pre-War, Post-War, everything. I wish things could have been different. We all do. Anybody who says they're completely happy with their life is either on a lot of drugs or really dumb. I wish things could have been, but somehow, I don't wish they ended differently.

They say war never changes. And, I guess, they're right. I heard someone say once that a man could look in the mirror and start a fight with his reflection. But I think when people say "war never changes," they really mean… _people_ never change. And that's a different statement.

People will always fight with each other. They'll always go to war for silly reasons, always act petty, always have their immature resentments. But, by proxy, people will always try to rebuild. They will always try to protect the innocent. They will always stand up for what they think is right. And, given time, they will always stand up and fight when given the chance. When given hope.

So, maybe war never changes. But neither does humanity. And as long as there are humans - or ghouls, or synths, or what have you - walking this earth, then by God, I think we stand a chance.

Rest in peace, Nate. I hope you're proud of me.


End file.
